



m 




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^Library of Congress, 



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j^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.^ ;^: 






THE 



TOLKRDl&'B (BHHID^I 



OR RULES 



FOE SPEAKING AND COMPOSING 



From the best JLuihoritieSt 



COMPILED AND PUBLISHED 

BY E. G. WELLES, d. M t 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PRINTED FOR THE COMPILER. 

Or* i. AUSTIN, PRINTER. 






•m? 




RECOMMENDATION 

By the Hex. Dr« Abercrombie, Ue\* Dr- Wilson 
and Re\. Dr* Wyiie. 

Messrs. Potters, ^ 

We are much pleased with t\\e Compila- 
tion published by Mr. Welles, entitled "The 
Orator's Gru\de, or Rules for Speaking and Com- 
posing." The condensed form of it, and its 
execution, are, in our opinion, calculated to 
render it both highly interesting and exten- 
sively useful-^-And we cannot hut hope that 
this work, and the other efforts of Mr. Welles 
to aid our youth in the study of Rhetoric and 
T&elles -Lettres, will he followed with the most 
happy consequences. 

Jas. Abercrombie. 

James P. Wilson, 

Saml. B- Wylie. 
Philadelphia, March 11th, 184$. 




QGDSTCHfiSITOi 



Page.' 

i, Advertisement - - - - 7 

2, General Remarks and Rules, ... 9 

3, Accent, Emphasis and Cadence , - - 19 

4, Gesture, 25 

5, Remarks, &c. Rules to be observed in Composition, 33 

6, Origin of Language, 35 
7 Progress of Language and Writing, 36 
S, Of Taste: — Its Characteristics and Pleasures, - 41 
9> Style : Perspicuity and Precision, - 43 

30 Classification of the several kinds of Style - - 45 

11, Simple, Affected and Vehement Style and some 

directions for forming a proper style 47 

12, Form of a regular discourse, - - 49 
13 History, - - - - * 51 

14, Philosophical Writing, „ . . - - 52 

15, Epistolary Writing, 53 

16, Fictitious History, - -» - - 53 

17, Nature of Poetry— its Origin and Progress, - 55 

18, On the Eloquence of the Pulpit, - - 56 



SELECTIONS, #c. 

19, Extract from Lord Byron's Cain — a Mystery, - 51 

20, Collins' Ode on the Passions, - - - 63 

21, On Cruelty o Animals— a Tale, by Cowper, - 65 

22, Address to Messiah, by Cowper, * * * 66 



CONTENTS. 

Page. 

23, The Power and Influence of an Individual, by Pre- 

sident Nott, ----- 68 

24, On Card Playing, by President Nott, - - * 70 

25, Mr. Phillips' Address to the King 76 

26, Othello ? s Apology — Shakspeare, - - - 86 

27, Brutus and Cassius— -Shakspeare, - - 85 

28, On education, by the Rev. Dr. Mason - - 87 

29, On the necessity of learning in Ministers of the 

Gospel, by the Rev. P. Lindsley, 90 

30, Messiah's Throne, a sermon preached in Totten- 

ham Court Chapel, London., by J. M. Mason, D. D. 93 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Systems of Utiles for Pronunciation and Composi- 
tion, are generally found connected with productions 
which are so large and expensive, that many of our 
youth often find it inconvenient to become possessed 
of them. Hence, utility and economy combine, to ren- 
der this little compend acceptable, and, indeed, desi- 
rable, to no inconsiderable portion of the community. 
The Compiler, however, is aware, that the Art, 
of Oratory needs no encomium. But he is at the same 
time as well aware, that a great proportion of our 
youh. and some who are preparing to become public 
teachers, consider this an art of but inferior conse- 
quence. With a view to correct this mistake, and to 
diffuse the spirit of genuine Oratory among the youth 
of thi? vicinity, and excite them to cultivate the talents 
which God has given them, it may briefly be observed, 
that — Oratory, or the Art of Speaking and Reading elo- 
quently, has been considered by the most distinguished 
characters of every age, to be the most important and 
ornamental of any ever possessed by man. The cor- 
rectness of this sentiment will never be denied by in- 
telligent and scientific men, until they shall have for- 
gotten the blessed and glorious effects which eloquence 
has produced.— It is this, JVoble Jrt which has pre- 
pared the way for the civilization and refinement of 
the barbarian; it is this, which has emancipated mil- 



Viil ADVERTISEMENT* 

lions from slavery; it is this, which has redeemed in« 
numerable captives; it is this, which has Drought re< 
lief to the oppressed widow and injured orphan — aud 
it is to this alone, that some are now indebted for their 
immortality! Should this little compend, produce a 
conviction, in some of the rising generation, of the 
importance of the compiler's object, and induce them 
to become correct and eloquent speakers — verily he 
will have his reward, — and to all the Patrons of ge. 
nuine Eloquence it is here most humbly inscribei 

By the 

Compiles, 



RULES FOB SPEAKING. 



General Uemarks on Pronunciation. 

Pronunciation, which was also called Action, was 
considered by the most competent judges among the 
ancients, as the primary part of an Orator's province? 
— as almost the only source from which he can hope 
to succeed, in the Art of persuasion. \V hen Cicero, 
in the person of Crassus, had discoursed in a diffuse 
and elegant manner upon all the other branches of 
Oratory, coming at last to speak of this, he said, " all 
the former have their effect according as they are pro- 
nounced." It is the action alone which governs in 
speaking ; without this, the best orator is of no value 
— and is often defeated by one, in other respects, much, 
his inferior." And Cicero lets us know, that the great 
Demosthenes was of the same opinion. When he was 
asked, what was the principal thing in oratory? he 
replied " Action," and being asked again, a second 
and a third time, what was of next importance, still re- 
plied, "Action." And indeed, had he not judged this 
to be highly necessary in an orator, he would never 
have taken so much pains, in correcting those natural 
defects under which he laboured at first, in order to 
acquire it. He had to surmount two very formidable 
obstacles — a weak voice, and an impediment in his 
speech ; the latter was so great, that he could not 
even pronounce some particular letters* But the for- 
mer of these defects he overcame, partly by speaking 

2 



10 

as loud as in his power, upon the shore, when the sea 
roared and was boisterous---and partly by pronouncing 
long sentences as he walked up some toll. Both of 
these methods had a joint effect in strengthening his or- 
gans of speech ; and he also found his pronunciation 
to become more clear and distinct from a use of peb- 
bles placed under his tongue. Nor was he less careful 
in endeavouring to acquire the habit of a becoming and 
decent gesture ; and for this purpose he used to pro- 
nounce alone before a large mirror. And knowing 
that he had an ungracious habit of shrugging up his 
shoulders when he spoke, to correct that, he used to 
suspend a sword over them with the point downwards. 
Such were some of the pains taken — such, some of the 
many efforts made by this man — this greatest of an- 
cient Orators, to surmount difficulties which would be 
considered even in these days, by a less aspiring mind, 
sufficient to discourage and deter from every pursuit 
in the least connected with Oratory. But he overcame 
them — by indefatigable diligence and perseverance ; 
and under all these discouraging circumstances, he 
reached the highest pitch of perfection, as an Orator 
among the ancients. This was acknowledged by the 
conduct of his great antagonist and rival in Elo- 
quence, Eschines — who, having been eclipsed by De- 
mosthenes in the cause of Ctesiphon, could not en- 
dure the mortification of it in the region where it hap- 
pened, but retired in disgrace to Rhodes. After his 
arrival here, however, in compliance with the desire 
of the Hhodians, he repeated to them his own Ora- 
tion upon that occasion, and the day following they 
requested to hear that of Demosthenes- -which request 




li 

he readily gratified ; and having pronounced It in % 
most graceful and animating manner, to the admira- 
tion and astonishment of every hearer, he observed : 
"How much more would you have wondered if you 
had heard him speak it himself !" To these authori- 
ties might be added the sentiments of Quintilian. — He 
says that, " It is not of so much moment what our 
compositions are, as how they are pronounced ; since 
it is the manner of the delivery by which the audience 
is moved." 

The truth of this sentiment of the ancients concern- 
ing the power and efficacy of pronunciation, might be 
proved by producing many instances. Hortensius, a 
cotemporary with Cicero, and whilst he lived next to 
him in reputation for being eloquent, was highly extolled 
for his graceful action. But his Orations when publish- 
ed after his death, Quintilian informs us, did not ap- 
pear answerable to the reputation he had while living 
whence he concluded, there must have been something 
peculiarly pleasing and fascinating in his action, by 
which he gained that character, which was lost when 
we came to read them. And here indeed, we can find 
no instance of this, more prominent and forcible than 
that furnished by Cicero himself. Ponipey being now 
dead, aid Caesar in uncontrolled possession of the 
government, many of his acquaintances interceded with 
him for their relations and friends, who had been of 
Pompey's party in the late commotions ; and amongst 
others Cicero appeared before Caesar to solicit for his 
friend Ligarius-— and when Tubero became apprised 
of it, who owed Ligarius a grudge, he appeared to op- 
pose it, representing Cicero's friend Ligarius asunwor 



12 

thy of his mercy ; and Caesar himself, was prejudiced 
against him — and hence, he said, when the cause was 
to come before him : " we may venture to hear Cicero 
display his eloquence in this case, for I know the per- 
son he pleads for to be an ill man and my enemy." 
But we find, however, that in the course of his Ora- 
tion, Cicero so affected Caesar, that the frequent chan- 
ges in his countenance evinced no ordinary emotions 
of mind ; and as the Orator touched upon the battle of 
Pharsalia which had given Caesar the Empire of the 
World, he presented it in such a moving manner, that 
Caesar could no longer controul his feelings — and was 
thrown into such a paroxysm, that he dropped the pa- 
pers and documents which he held in his hands ! This 
was the more remarkable, inasmuch, as Caesar was 
himself, one of the greatest Orator's of his age — all the 
arts of address, and every avenue to the passions were 
well known to him, and of course he was the better 
prepared to guard against their influence. But nei- 
ther his skill ii^ Oratory, nor deep-rooted prejudice 
against Ligarius, was a sufficient guard against the 
power of Eloquence; but this Conquerer of the World 
became a captive to the charms of Cicero, and contrary 
to his predetermined sentence, he pardoned Ligarius. 
Now, that Oration is still extant ; and though ii cer- 
tainly appears to be well calculated to move the finer 
feelings and springs of the soul, yet we cannot discern 
on reading it, how it should have had so astonislii^g 
an effect ! and this effect must have been principally 
owing to the address and oratory of Cicero. 

The more natural our pronunciation is, the more 
moving it will be \ since the perfection of art consists, 



13 

in its nearest resemblance to nature. Hence it is not 
without the best of reasons, that the ancients make it 
an indispensable qualification in an orator, that he ap- 
pear to be a sincere and good man ; because a person 
of this character will make the cause he espouses his 
own, and the more sensibly he is moved himself, the 
more natural will be his pronunciation ; and of course 
the greater will be its effect upon others. It is cer- 
tain that reality in every thing excels imitation ; but 
if that were sufficient of itself, in pronunciation, we 
should have no occasion to recur to art. In this case, 
therefore, as well as in many others, art, if well ma- 
naged, will help to perfect nature. 

But this is not all ; for it often happens that we 
find the force of it so great and powerful, that where 
it is entirely counterfeit, it will, for a time, produce the 
same effect, as if it were founded in truth, This is 
well known by those who have been conversant with 
the representations of the theatre. In tragedies, though 
we are sensible that every thing we see and hear, is 
fictitious ; yet such is the fascinating power of action, 
that many, whose good sense and accomplishments are 
worthy to be employed in some real and more digni- 
fied scene, are often affected by it in the same manner, 
as if it were all reality. Anger and resentment at the 
exhibition of wanton cruelty ; concern and solicitude 
for suffering virtue, rise in our breasts, and tears are 
extorted from us for persecuted innocence — and at the 
same moment, perhaps we are ready to blush at our- 
selves for being thus decoyed. If art then have so 
great an influence upon us, when supported by fancy 
and imagination only, how powerful must be its influ 



14 

ence, when it gives us a just and animating repre- 
sentation of what we know to be true ? How agree- 
able it is both to nature and reason, that a warmth of 
expression, and vehemency of motion, should rise in 
proportion to the importance of the subject and anxie- 
ty of the speaker, will more forcibly appear, by look- 
ing back a little into the more early and simple ages 
of the world; for, the higher we go, the more we shall 
find of both. The Romans exhibited a great share of 
talent this way, and the Greeks a greater still. In- 
deed, all the nations of the east excelled in it; and par- 
ticularly, that divinely favoured nation, the Hebrews. 
Nothing, in modern days, has equalled the strength 
and vivacity of the figures employed in their discourse, 
and the actions which they used to express their sen- 
timents ; such as throwing ashes upon their heads ; 
tearing their garments, and covering themselves with 
sackcloth, under any deep distress or sorrow of mind : 
and hence, no doubt, those surprising effects of elo- 
quence appeared, which we never witness now. — 
And what is here declared of the eastern nations, with 
respect to action, was, in a great measure, prevalent 
with the Greeks and Romans : if it were not precisely 
of the same kind, it was no less vehement and ex- 
pressive. They did not think language of itself suf- 
ficicnt to express the height of their passions, unless 
enforced by uncommon motions and gestures. Thus, 
when Achilles had driven the Trojans into their city 
with the greatest precipitation and terror, and only 
Hector ventured to tarry without the gates to engage 
him, Homer represents both, King Priam and his 
Queen, in the highest state of consternation for the 



15 

danger of their son; and, therefore, in order to pre- 
vail with him to enter the city, and not fight with 
Achilles, they not only entreat him from the walls, in 
the most tender and moving language imaginable* 
but they violently tear off their grey locks with their 1 
hands, and adjure him to comply with their request, j 
The poet well knew, that no words of themselves 
could represent those agonies of mind he endeavoured i 
to convey, unless heightened by the idea of such ac- 
tions as were expressivo of the deepest sorrow. In 
©ne of Cicero's orations, he proceeds to argue in this 
manner with one of his adversaries : ** Would you 
talk thus if you were serious ? Would you, who are 
wont to display your eloquence so warmly in the dan- 
ger of others, act so coldly in your own ? Where is 
that concern, that ardour which used to extort pity 
even from children ? Here is no emotion, either of 
mind or body ; neither the forehead struck, nor the 
thigh, nor so much as a stamp of the foot 5 therefore, 
you have been so far from inflaming our minds, that 
you have scarcely kept us awake." 

The ancients had persons whose proper business 
it was, to teach them how to regulate and manage 
their voice 5 and others who instructed them in the 
whole art of pronunciation, both as to their voice and 
gestures. The latter were selected from the most 
celebrated and experienced actors of the stage — But 
though they sometimes made use of actors to instruct 
their youth in forming their speech and gestures, yet 
they always, very correctly, considered the action of 
a real orator to be necessarily very different from tlm t 
of the theatre. Cicero very forcibly represents this 



16 

distinction, when speaking of orators, in the words of 
Crassus, he says, " the motions of the body ought to 
be suited to the expressions, not in a theatrical way, 
mimicking the words by particular gestulation, but 
in a manner expressive of the general sense, with a 
sedate and manly inflection of the sides, not taken 
from the stage and actors, but from the exercise of 
arms and the palestra." — And Quintilian observes to 
the same purpose — "The gestures and motions of 
comedians are not to be imitated by an orator." These 
distinguished men, thought the action of the theatre 
too light and extravagant to be imitated by an ora- 
tor, and, therefore, when they employed an actor to 
instruct young children in the first rudiments, they 
were always sent after this to schools of a higher 
grade, designed on purpose to teach them a decent 
and graceful management of their bodies. Being thus 
prepared, they were afterwards sent to the schools of 
the rhetoricians ; and here, as their business was to 
cultivate their style, and acquire the whole art of elo- 
quence — so particularly to acquire a just and accurate 
pronunciation, by those exercises, in which, for that 
important end, they were constantly employed. Nor 
after all this pains and industry, did they yet think 
themselves qualified to take upon them the character 
of orators : but it was their constant custom to collect 
together some of their friends and acquaintance, who 
were competent to judge of such performances, and 
declaim privately before them. The business of these 
persons was to make observations upon their perform- 
ances, both with respect to the language which they 
used, and the manner of pronunciation 5 and they were 



17 

expected to use the greatest freedom, to take notice of 
any and every thing conceived to be imperfect, either 
as to inaccuracy of method, impropriety of style, or 
ungracefulness in voice or gesture. This course gave 
them an opportunity to^correct all such defects, at first, 
before they became habitual. Here we see parents, 
in earlier times, exhibiting more sense than to send 
their children to such schools as profess to teach all 
branches at once, and in the same bustling and confu- 
sed room, and where, in fact, no branch is taught in 
such a manner as it ought to be done. 

The characteristic difference between the accom- 
plishments of the youth, trained up and introduced 
to the world after the manner of the ancients, and those 
who are now trained up in the confusion and noise 
which universally attend schools, where all branches 
are taught at the same time and place, is great, and 
humiliating indeed; and the course pursued by the 
ancients, as to its utility, dignity, and beauty, is as 
much to be preferred as the established, regular and 
splendid book- store is to the contemptible street- 
bookstall. And here it is proper to ask, what splen- 
did effects might we not expect in the present day, in 
the midst of this dearth of real oratory, from the es- 
tablishment of such an institution? Persons trained 
up in this manner, with all those advantages, combi- 
ned with good natural genius, could rarely fail of be- 
coming accomplished orators; for even after they had 
made their appearance before the public, like the an- 
cient youth, they would not then discontinue the prac- 
tice of declaiming. 

3 



18 

The influence of sounds, either to raise or allay our 
passions, is evident from music; and, unquestionably, 
the harmony of a fine essay, or discourse, on being 
either read or recited well and gracefully, is as capa- 
ble of moving us, if not with such violence and ecsta- 
cy, yet with no less pow r er, and certainly more agree- 
able to our rational faculties. As persons are differ- 
ently affected when they speak, so they naturally al- 
ter the tone of their voice, though they do not appear 
to attend to it. Now, it rises, — now, it sinks, and has 
various inflexions given it, according to the state or 
disposition of the mind. When the mind is calm and 
sedate, the voice is moderate and even; when the for- 
mer is pressed down by sorrow, the latter is tremulous 
and languid, and when that is roused by passion, this 
is at once elevated. It is the orator's business there- 
fore, to follow nature, and to endeavour that the tone 
of his voice appear natural and unaffected — and, for 
this end, he must take care to suit it to the nature of 
the subject; but yet so as to be grave and always de- 
cent. Some persons continue their discourse in such 
a low and drawling manner, that they can scarcely 
be heard by their audience. Others again, let the 
nature of the subject be what it may, hurry on, in so 
loud and boisterous a manner, that it would seem they 
imagined their hearers to be deaf. Now, all the mu- 
sic and harmony of voice, lies between these two ex- 
tremes. 



19 



Of Accent, Emphasis, and Cadence. 

Nothing is of more importance to a speaker, than 
to pay proper attention to accent, emphasis, and ca- 
dence. Every word in our language, of more than one 
syllable, has, at least, one accented syllable. This 
syllable ought to be rightly known, and the word 
should be pronounced by the speaker in the same 
manner as he would pronounce it in ordinary conver- 
sation. 

JBy emphasis, we distinguish those words in a sen- 
tence, which we esteem the most important, by laying 
a greater stress of voice upon them than we do upon 
others ; and it is surprising to observe how the sens© 
of a phrase may be altered by varying the emphasis. 
The following example will serve as an illustration. 
This short question, " Will you ride to town to-day ?** 
may be understood in four different ways, and, conse- 
quently, may receive four different answers, according 
as we place the emphasis. If it be pronounced thus, 
" Will you ride to town to-day ?" the answer may with 
propriety, be given — No ; I shall send my son. If 
thus, " Will you ride to town to-day ?" Answer — No; 
I intend to walk. " Will you ride to town to-day?" 
No ; 1 shall ride into the country. " Will you ride 
to town to-dayt No ; but I may to-morrow. This 
shows how necessary it is, that a speaker should know 
how to place his emphasis ; and the only rule for this 
is, that he study to attain a just conception of the force 



20 

and spirit of the sentiments which he delivers. There 
is as great a difference between one who lays his em- 
phasis properly, and one who pays no regard to it, or 
places it wrong, as there is between one who plays on 
an instilment with the hand of a master, and the most 
clownish and blundering performer. 

Cadence, is the reverse of emphasis. It is a depres- 
sion, or lowering of the voice, and commonly falls on 
the last syllable in a sentence. It must be varied, 
however, according to the sense. When a question 
is asked, it seldom falls on the last word, and many 
sentences require no cadence at all. Every person 
who speaks in public should endeavour, if possible, to 
fill the place where he speaks. But still he ought to 
be careful not to exceed the natural key of his voice. 
If he does, it will neither be soft nor agreeble ; but 
either harsh and rough, or too shrill and squeaking. 
JBesides, he will not be able to give every syllable its 
full aud distinct sound, which will render what he 
says obscure, and difficult to be understood. He 
should, therefore, take care to keep his voice within 
reach, so as to be able to manage it, that he may raise 
or sink it, or give it any inflection, he thinks proper; 
which, it will not be in his power to do, if he put a 
force upon it, and strain it beyond its natural tone. 

The like caution is to be used against the contrary 
extreme, that the voice be not suffered to sink too low. 
This will give the speaker pain in raising it again to 
its proper pitch, and be no less offensive to the hear- 
ers. The medium between these two, is a moderate 
and even voice ; but this is not the same in all ; that 
which is moderate in one, would be high in another. 
Every person, therefore, must regulate it by the na- 






21 

tural key of his own voice. A calm and sedate voice 
is generally best — as a moderate sound is most pleas- 
ing to the ear, if it be clear and distinct. But this 
equality of the voice must also be accompanied with 
a variety; otherwise, there can be no harmony; since 
all harmony consists in variety. 

Nothing is more unpleasant than a discourse pro- 
nounced throughout in one continued tone of the voice 
without any alteration. The equality, therefore, we 
are here speaking of, admits a varity of inflections 
and changes within the same pitch; and, when that 
is altered, the gradations, whether higher or lower, 
should be so gentle and regular as to preserve a due 
proportion of the parts, and harmony of the whole ; 
which cannot be done when the voice is suddenly 
varied with too great a distinction ; and, therefore, it 
should move from one key to another, so as rather to 
glide like a gentle stream, than pour down like a ra- 
pid torrent. But an affected variety, ill placed, is as 
disagreeable to a judicious audience, as the want of 
it, where the subject requires it. We may find some 
persons, in pronouncing a grave and plain discourse, 
affect as many different tones, and variations of their 
voice, as they would in acting a comedy — and this is 
manifestly a very great impropriety. But the orator's 
province is not barely to apply to the mind, but likewise, 
to the passions ; which require a great variety of thu 
voice, high or low, vehement or languid, according t-.> 
the nature of the passions he designs to affect. So, that 
for an orator always to use the same tone or degree 
of his voice, and expect to accomplish all his object's 
by it, would be as inconsistent as the conduct of that 



22 

empiric among physicians, who informs you he can 
and will, undertake to cure all diseases with one 
nostrum. And as an entire monotony, is always un- 
pleasant, so it can never he necessary or proper in 
any discourse. That some sentences ought to be pro- 
nounced faster than others is very manifest. Gay and 
sprightly ideas should not only be expressed louder, 
but also quicker than such as are gloomy and plaintive. 
And When Ave press an opponent, the voice should 
be brisk. But when we hurry on in a precipitant 
manner without pausing, until compelled to stop for 
want of breath, we certainly commit a great mistake. 
In this way, the necessary distinction between sen- 
tence and sentence is destroyed — and also, that be- 
tween the several words of the same sentence ; and 
consequently, all the grace of speaking is lost, and 
in a great measure the advantage derived from being 
heard. Young persons are very liable to this, espe- 
cially at first. It however, often arises from diffi- 
dence. — Being jealous of their performances, and the 
success they may have in speaking, they are in pain 
till the exercise is over; and this puts them into a 
hurry of mind, which incapacitates them for govern- 
ing their voice and keeping it under that due regula- 
tion, which perhaps they proposed to themselves be- 
fore they commenced speaking. And, as a precipitant 
and hasty pronunciation is culpable, so also on the 
other hand, it is a fault to speak too slowly. This 
seems to argue a heaviness in the speaker — and as he 
appears cool himself, he can never expect to warm his 
hearers, and excite their affections. When not only 
every word, but every syllable is drawn out to too 



23 

greats a length, the ideas do not come fast enough to 
keep up the attention without much uneasiness. Now 
to avoid either of these two extremes last mentioned, 
the voice ought to be distinct and sedate. And in or- 
der to have it distinct, it is necessary, not only that 
each word and syllable should have its just and full 
sound, both as to time and accent ; but also, that every 
sentence, and part of a sentence, should be separated. 
by it proper pause. This is more easy to be done in 
reading, from the assistance of ihe points : but it is no 

less rigidly to be attended to in speaking, if we would 
pronounce in a distinct and graceful manner. For, 
let it never be forgotten, that every one should speak 
in the same manner as he ought to read, if possible 
to arrive at such exactness. Now, the common rule 
given in pausing is, that we stop our voice at a com- 
ma, till we can tell one ; at a semicolon, two ; at a colon 
three ; and at a full period four. And, as these points 
are accommodated to the several parts of the same 
sentence, as the first three ; or different sentences as 
the last; this occasions the different length of the 
pause, by which, either the dependence of what suc- 
ceeds upon that which follows, or its distinction from 
it, is represented. It is not in our power to give our- 
selves what qualities of the voice we please ; but it is 
in every one's power to make the best use he can of 
what a kind and wise providence has bestowed upon 
him. However, several defects of the voice are ca- 
pable of being remedied by care, and the use of proper 
means. As on the other hand, the best voice may be 
greatly injured by bad management and indiscretion. 



24 

A^temperate habit of living is calculated to preserve 
and improve the voice ; and every species of excess is 
extremely prejudicial to it. The voice must necessa- 
rily suffer, if the organs of speech have not their pro- 
per tone. A strong voice is of great service to an 
orator; because, if he want some other advantages, he 
is however sure of making himself heard. And if, at 
any time, he is forced to strain it, he is in little dan- 
ger of its failing him Jbefore he finishes his discourse. 
But he, who has a weak voice, should be very care- 
ful not to strain it, especially when commencing his 
discourse. He ought to begin in a slow manner, and 
rise gradually, to such a pitch as the key of his voice 
will carry him, without being obliged to sink again 
afterwards. Frequent inflections of the voice will 
likewise be some assistance to him. But especially 
he should take care to speak deliberately, and ease 
his voice at all the proper pauses. It is an extreme, 
much less inconvenient for such a person rather to 
speak too slow, than too fast. But this defect of a weak 
voice, is sometimes capable of being helped by the 
use of proper methods, as is evident from the instance 
of Demosthenes before mentioned. Some persons, 
either from want of due careen their education at first, 
or from inadvertency and negligence afterwards, run 
into an irregular and confused manner of expressing 
their words ; either by misplacing the accent, con- 
founding the sound of the letters, or huddling the 
syllables one upon another, so as to render what they 
say, often unintelligible. Indeed, sometimes this arises 
from a natural defect, as in the case of Demosthenes; 



25 



who found a mean to rectify that, as well as the weak* 
ness of his voice. But, in defects of this kind which 
proceed from habit, the most likely method of mend* 
ing them, doubtless, is, to speak with great delibera* 
tion. 



Of Gesture. 

By the term gesture, we mean that conformity of 
the countenance, motion, and several parts of the 
body, which is suited to the subject of our discourse. 

It is not decided, with any degree of unanimity, 
among the learned, whether the voice, or gesture* hag 
t^e greatest influence upon an auditory. But as the 
latter affects us through the eye, and the former through 
the ear, it would seem, that gesture, from the nature 
of it, must have this advantage — that it conveys the 
impression more speedily to the mind — as the sight is 
the quickest of all our senses. Nor is its influence 
less upon our passions ; as experience has often pro- 
ved. The eye has a more powerful effect than any 
gesture.— A cast of the eye, will express desire, or 
love, in a more moving manner than the softest, and 
most mellifluous language ; and a different motion of 
it, disgust and resentment. To wring the hands, tear 
the hair, or strike the breast, are all strong indica- 
tions of sorrow. And he who only puts his hand upon 

his sword, throws us" into a greater panic/ than one 

4 



26 

who only threatens to kill us. Nor is it, in many 
respects, less various and expressive language. We 
are told by Cicero, that he often diverted himself by 
trying this with Roscins, the celebrated comedian ; 
who could express a sentence in as many ways by 
his gestures, as he could by his words. And those 
dramas, called pantomimes, have frequently been car- 
ried on wholly by mutes, who have performed every 
part by gestures only, in a very intelligible and inte- 
resting manner. With respect to oratory, gesture 
may very properly be styled the second part of pro- 
nunciation ; in w 'hick, as the voice should be suited 
to the impressions it receives from the mind, so the 
several motions of the body ought to be accommodated 
to the various tones and inflections of the voice. 
When the voice is even, and moderate, little gesture 
;s required ; and nothing can be more improper, than 
violent motion, in discoursing upon ordinary and fa- 
miliar subjects. The motion of the body should rise, 
therefore, in proportion to the vehemence and energy 
of the sentiment, and appear to be the natural and 
genuine effect of it. 

But as the gesture is very different and various, as 
to the manner of it, which depends upon the proper 
management of the several parts of the body, it will 
be important to point out more particularly the manage- 
ment which is now under consideration. Now all 
ges ture is either natural, or from imitation. By na- 
tural gesticulation, we mean, such actions and motions 
of the body, as naturally accompany our words — as 
words do the impressions of our mind ; — and these 
either respect the whole body, or some particular 



27 

part of it. The orator should not long continue stand- 
ing in the same position, like a statue ; but be con- 
stantly changing, though the motion needs to be but 
very moderate. There ought to be no appearance of 
stiffness, but a certain ease, and pliableness, natural- 
ly suiting itself to every expression; by which means, 
when a greater degree of motion is necessary, it will 
appear less sudden and vehement ; for as the raising, 
sinking, and various inflexions of the voice must be 
gradual, so likewise should the motions of the body. 
It is only on some particular occasions, that a hurried, 
vehement, and impetuous manner, is proper in either 
case. 

With respect to the seveial parts of the body, the 
gestures of the head, are the most important. To raise 
this too high, gives an air of arrogance and pride ; 
to stretch it forward too far, or throw it back, betrays 
clownish and uncultivated manners; to hang it down- 
wards upon the breast, shows an undignified diffidence 
and want of spirit ; and to suffer it to rest on either 
shoulder, evinces both sloth and indolence. Hence, 
in all calm, and sedate speaking, the head should be 
kept in its natural state, or upright posture. How- 
ever, it should not be long without motion, nor yet 
constantly moving ; but gently turn, sometimes on one 
side, and sometimes on the other, as occasion requires ; 
that the voice may be more distinctly heard by all who 
are present; and then return in an easy and graceful 
manner to its natural position. It should always ac- 
company the other actions of the body, and turn on 
the same side with them ; except when we wish to 
express aversion to any thing ; and this is to be done* 



28 

by stretching out the right hand with the palm turned 
back, and turning the head to the left. 

But it is the countenance, that principally repre- 
sents both the passions, and the disposition, of the 
mind. By this we express love, hatred, joy, and 
sorrow ; modesty, and confidence — by this we suppli- 
cate, threaten, soothe, flatter, invite, forbid, consent, 
or refuse; and all this we may do without articula- 
tion ; and, indeed, it is from a view of the counte- 
nance, that we judge not only of a person's present 
temper, but of his capacity, and natural disposition. 
Hence, it is common to say, such a one " has a pro- 
mising countenance," or, " his countenance promises 
but little." This, however, is not an infallible rule 
of judging; nor is it in the power of an orator to alter 
the natural mechanism of his countenance. But th& 
several parts of the face bear their part, and contri- 
bute to the proper and decent motion of the whole.. 
In cool and dispassionate discourse, all the features 
retain their natural state and situation. In sorrow, 
the forehead and eyebrows lower, and the cheeks 
hang down ; but in expressions of cheerfulness and 
joy, the forehead and eyebrows are expanded, the 
cheeks contracted, and the corners of the mouth drawn 
upwards. 

Anger and resentment contract the forehead, draw 
the brows together, and thrust out the lips ; and ter- 
ror elevates both the brows and forehead ; and as these 
are invariably the natural signs of such passions, the 
orator should ever recollect, and conform to them. 
But as the eyes are the most active and significant, it 
is recommended that the greatest care should be taken 



29 

in their management ; because other parts of the coun- 
tenance, have but a few motions ; whereas the eyes ex- 
press all the passions of the soul, by so many differ- 
ent actions, which cannot possibly be expressed by 
any gestures of the body, if the eyes are kept in a 
fixed and motionless posture. We readily determine a 
person's inclinations, and how he is affected towards 
us,by observing his eyes ; and any sudden gust, or 
emotion of the mind, is speedily followed by an altera- 
tion in the eye. Hence, in speaking, upon pleasant 
and delightful subjects, the eyes are all animation and 
cheerfulness; and, on the contrary, they become in- 
animate, languid, and cheerless, on delivering any 
thing afflictive and sorrowful. This is so conforma*- 
ble to nature, that before a person speaks, we are 
prepared, from a mere view of him, with an expecta- 
tion of either one,- or the other, from his different as- 
pect. So also in anger, a certain vehemence and in- 
tenseness appears in the eyes, which, for want of pro- 
per words with which to express it, we endeavour to 
represent it by metaphors taken from fire, the most 
violent and rapid element ; and say, in such cases^ 
the eyes sparkle, burn, or are inflamed. In expres- 
sions of dislike and detestation, it is natural to alter 
the looks, either by turning the ej es aside, or down- 
wards. Indeed^ the eyes are sometimes turned down- 
wards upon other occasions 5 for instance, to express 
modesty ; and if at any time a particular object be 
addressed, whatever it be, the eyes should be turned 
that way. And hence, a certain author, with great 
propriety, ridicules the rhetorician, as guilty of a so- 
lecism in gesture, wb>o, when saying, Jupiter ! turn- 



30 

ed his eyes downwards ; and when saying, O earth i 
looked upwards. 

A staring look, has the appearance of poverty of 
intellect, and want of thought ; and a conti action of 
the eyes, excites the suspicion of chicanery or design. 
A fixed look, may be occasioned by intense ness of 
thought, but, at the same time, it betrays a disregard 
to the audience; and a rapid wandering motion of the 
eyes, is generally considered, as denoting levity and 
wantonness. It is, therefore, concluded that a gentle 
and moderate motion of the eyes, is generally the most 
suitable — always directed towards some of the au- 
dience ; and gradually turning from side to side, with 
a respectful modest air, looking them in the face, as in 
common conversation. Such a management of the 
eyes, will, undoubtedly, attract due attention. With 
respect to the other parts of the body distinct from the 
head, the shoulders ought not to be elevated ; for this 
is not only, in itself, indecent; but it also contracts 
the neck and prevents the proper motion of the head. 
Nor pn the other hand, should they be drawn down 
and depressed: as this will occasion a stiffness of the 
neck,^iot only, but of the whole body. Their natural 
posture, therefore, is best, as this is the most easy and 
graceful. To shrug the shoulders has an air of abjec- 
tion and servility ; and frequently to heave them up- 
wards and downwards, is a very disagreeable sight. 
A continued motion of the arms, any way, is by all 
means to be avoided ; as their action should generally 
be very moderate, and follow that of the hands ; unless 
in very pathetic expressions, when, it may be proper 
to give them a more animated and rapid motion. 



% 



ai 

It may here be further observed, that all proper 
motions of the body, are either upward or downward; 
to the right or left ; forward or backward, or, it possi- 
bly may be circular. And, in all these, the hands are 
necessarily employed, except in the last. And, as they 
ought to correspond to the sentiments we intend to 
communicate, they ought always to begin and end with 
them. In admiration and our addresses to heaven, 
the hands should be elevated, but rarely raised above 
the eyes ; and when speaking of things below us^ 
they should be directed downwards. Side motion, 
should generally begin from the left, and gently ter- 
minate on the right. In demonstration, addresses, and 

on many other occasions, they should move forward ; 
and sometimes, in threatening^ they should be thrown 

back. But when the Orator speaks of himself, he 
should gently lay his right hand upon his breast. And 
the left hand should seldom move alone, but conform 
to the motions of the right. In motions to the left 
side, the right hand should not be often carried beyond 
the left shoulder. 

In promises, and complimentary expressions the 
hands should have a gentle and slow motion ; but in ex- 
pressions of applause and exhortation, their motion 
should be rapid. The hands should generally be open; 
but in expressions of contrition and anger, they may be 
closed. All trifling and finical actions of the fingers 
should be avoided ; though they should not be stretch- 
ed out and expanded in a fixed and rigid posture, but 
kept in an easy and natural one. Tbe foregoing, are the 
gestures which naturally accompany our expressions, 
and if duly regarded, will, undoubtedly, be found 



&2 

sufficient for all the purposes of those who wish to be- 
come eloquent orators. We have alluded, indeed, to 
another sort of gestures — to those required fur imita- 
tion ; as, where the speaker personates another, and 
describes his actions : — But gestures of this kind arc 
never wanted by a good orator, and generally subject 
those who make use of them, to the charge of buffoon- 
ery, of light, unnatural, and theatric mimicry. When 
an orator is compelled to exhibit things of this sort, 
let him convey their imagery to the minds of his hear- 
ers, in an animating manner ; but never resort to those 
changes of the voice, attitude, gesture, and countenance 
which betray a forgetfulness of that self-respect, and 
that dignity, which ought ever to appear, in a distin- 
guished orator. And, to close our remarks upon this sub- 
ject, it is earnestly recommended, that every speaker, 
should most carefully guard against all affectation; 
which is the utter destruction of good pronunciation. 
Let his manner, whatever it be, be his own ; not the 
product of an imitation of any one, nor taken from a 
model of the imagination; as this will always be un- 
natural. Whatever is natural, though it may be some* 
what defective, will generally please ; because it ex- 
hibits only the person before us, and appears to come 
unadulterated, from the heart. It is true, that to attain 
the art of an extremely correct, and graceful pronun- 
ciation,is what but few comparatively speaking, can ac- 
complish; as it requires a concurrence, or combination 
of talents, which every one does not possess. At the 
same time, it is equally true, that it is in the power of 
the greatest part of mankind, to acquire a habit of 
speaking in a forcible and persuasive manner ; and 



as 

those who do not acquire this habit when possessed 
of the means, evince a taste, which will forever debar 
them the pleasure of respectable and refined society. 



REMARKS, &c. 

Introductory to Mules to be observed in Composition. 

It is generally understood that an acquaintance with 
the circle of the liberal arts, is indispensably neces- 
sary, to the successful study of Rhetoric and Belles- 
Lettres. It has been the sentiment, in every enlight- 
ened age, that in order to become distinguished for 
Oratory or real Eloquence, we first must be conversant 
with every department of science. And, indeed, it will 
forever be impossible for man to contrive an art, 
which shall give the merit of richness and splendour 
of expression, to a composition which possesses barren 
or erroneous sentiments. Oratory has frequently been 
debased by attempts to establish a false criterion of 
its value — some mistaken writers, have endeavoured 
to supply the want of matter by the graces of their 
composition ; and to court the momentary applause of 
the ignorant and vulgar, instead of the enduring and 
- valuable approbation of the enlightened and discern- 
ing. But the prevalence of such oratory is well known 
to be transitory ; and the body, and basis of any valu- 
able composition, must be produced by knowledge and 

science. The structure may be completed and polish- 

5 



34 



ed by the Rhetorical art ; but it is the firm, solid, and 
durable body only, which is able to receive it. Indeed, 
it would be more than presumption, here to assert, that 
the study of Rhetorical rules will insure excellence 
in writing a discourse; in order to this, long and 
faithful application to study and practice are neces- 
sary, even for the brightest and most creative genius. 
At the same time, one of the most important objects 
in the education of youth is, to engage them very early 
in life, in such studies, as are calculated to produce a 
relish for the entertainments of taste. From a relish 
for these, to that of the discharge of the higher and 
more important duties of life, the transition will be 
natural and easy. From those minds among our 
youth which have this elegant and noble turn, we may 
cherish the most animating and pleasing hopes. Cfn 
the contrary, from those who manifest an entire insen- 
sibility to the entertainments of eloquence, poetry, and 
the fine arts — such as music, painting, sculpture, ar- 
chitecture, and gardening, we can expect nothing but 
vulgarity and perverseness ; inclinations for nothing 
but gratifications of an inferior order, and a capacity 
for only some of the lowest mechanical pursuits. And 
as that pithy sentence, " Ex nihillo, nihil fit," will 
always prove true, youth of this character ought never 
lo be compelled to engage in the study of the liberal 
arts and of Rhetoric and the Belles -Lettres. For 
they only become objects of ridicule for students of 
elevated and refined taste ; and a disgrace to their pa- 
rents and more intelligent connexions. It is, however, 
to aid those of opposite character; who thirst for im- 
provement in the higher, ornamental and useful arts, 



35 



this little compend is designed ; and for this purpose 
the following compilation from Philosophical and 
Rhetorical productions is most respectfully presented. 



The Origin of Language. 

Nothing, perhaps, is more evident, than the posi- 
tion, that our thoughts can never be considered as ob- 
jects of attention, for the external senses. In order 
to communicate these to others, the earliest method 
resorted to, was undoubtedly the use of the voice and 
gesticulations. And, although language affords only 
audible signs, or arbitrary symbols of things, yet its 
superiority to gesture, in communication, being evinced 
by its greater certainty and variety— it has^ from the 
commencement of the existence of our race, been the 
great and universal medium of mental intercourse. 

The great similarity of the various languages used 
by the nations of the earth, however remote from each 
other, has generally been considered by the learned, 
as satisfactory evidence that they all are to be traced 
to the same origin. We indeed, cannot imagine how 
communities could exist, without language ; and it 
would be folly in the extreme, to suppose that language 
existed in this world previously to the existence of 
society. To open the mouth of the dumb, and to cause 
their organs of speech to utter distinct and significant 
language, required the exercise of that powerful intel- 
ligence who made them. And hence, even heathen 
philosophers, have ascribed the origin of primitive lan- 
guage, to the invisible and unknown God — and those 



36 

who read 7 and believe divine revelation, find and are 
satisfied with the testimony, that God, our Maker, at 
first furnished man with the faculties of reason and 
speech, and actually influenced and taught him how to 
exercise them in his intercourse with his Maker. We 
indeed, know not how great a degree of perfection, 
that language had, which came immediately from the 
allknowing God; yet it may be fairly supposed, it 
was not only sufficient for all the purposes of man, but 
was more perfect than any language ever spoken by 
man, since he experienced the effects of that bewilder- 
ing and woful shock$ which the apostacy from his 
Maker occasioned ! It being sufficiently clear, there- 
fore, that the exercise of the faculties, of reason and 
speech, must have been produced by a divine influence, 
and words to communicate ideas, originated from the 
same source, we shall, in the next extract, furnish a 
view of the progress of both language and writing. 



Progress of Language and Writing. 

When the sphere of communication became enlarged 
it became necessary to have names applied to particu- 
lar objects ; and the question now is, how did they pro- 
ceed in this application? Certainly, by assimilating, as 
much as they could, the sound of the name which they 
gave, to the nature of the object named ; as a painter 
who would represent grass, must make use of a green 
colour ; so in the infancy of language, (as some would 
term it) one employed in giving a name to any thing 
iiarsh or boisterous, would employ a harsh and bois- 



ferous sound. He could not act otherwise without of- 
fering violence to instinctive reason, and an insult to 
his Maker, who had thus taught him. And hence it is, 
that we find wherever objects were to be distinguish- 
ed, in which sound, action, or motion were included, 
the resemblance in the sound of the words is always 
obvious. Thus, in all languages, we discover a mul- 
titude of words which are evidently constituted upon 
this principle. And this analogy holds good in all 
cases, except, where neither sound nor motion are 
concerned ; and here, the names of such objects, as 
are presented to the sight, and those terms ^v hich are 
appropriated to moral and immaterial things,) it is ob- 
servable, that the analogy is not always so visible. 
Yet, it has been the uniform sentiment of the learned, 
that it is not entirely lost ; but that throughout the 
radical words of all languages, a resemblance to the 
object named is obvious. This principle, however, 
respects language in its early and most simple state ; 
for the compiler is aware, that the boundless field 
which has been occupied by the nations, and which 
has exhibited innumerable arbitrary construcors of 
language, abounds with thousands, and tens cf thou- 
sands, of fanciful and irregular terms, and methods 
of derivation and composition, which bear no resem- 
blance, in sound, to the character of their roots, or to 
the thing signified. And words as we now use them, 
taken generally, may be considered as symbols, but 
not as imitations ; as instituted and arbitrary, and not 
the natural signs of ideas. And hence, the inference, 
is certainly forcible, that language in its primitive and 
Unadulterated state was, undoubtedly, more naturak 



38 

and, as it came to creatures from the infinite and all- 
perfect God, it was more perfect than it ever has been 
since the confusion of intellect occasioned by the 
fall. It is, nevertheless, true, that language, in its pro- 
gress among the nations, has become (perhaps, hoWr 
ever from no happy necessity) more copious ; as it has 
lost the beauty of its figurative style which was its 
original characteristic, That natural and vehement 
manner of speaking, by tones and gestures, has been 
extensively laid aside, and instead of natural and ani- 
mated poetic instructors, we are now furnished with 
the professedly cool, but often dangerous philosophers 
— And the style of a philosopher of modern days, 
from its being considered more simple, cool and dis- 
passionate, has superseded the ancient metaphorical 
and poetic language of men, in their intercourse witli 
each otlier. 

Writing, is an improvement upon speech, and, of 
course ;s of later origin. 

Its characters are of two kinds : signs for words, 
and skns for things. The alphabetical characters 
which we now employ, are signs for words ; and the 
pictures, hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by 
the ancents, were signs for things. 

Pictires were, doubtless, the origin of writing. — 
Mankind, in all ages, and in all nations, have been 
instinctively inclined to imitation. This course would 
soon be employed for furnishing imperfect descrip- 
tions of events and records of their existence. Thus, 
to represent that one man had slain another, they 
painted the form of a dead man stretched upon the 
ground, and of his murderer standing over him, armed 
with some deadly weapon. 



89 

When America was first discovered, this was the 
only kind of writing with which the Mexicans were 
acquainted. But this was a very defective expedient, 
as in recording facts, pictures can delineate only ex- 
ternal objects. 

The use of hieroglyphical characters, has been con- 
sidered as the second stage of the art of writing. — 
These characters consist of certain symbols which are 
made to represent immaterial or invisible objects, on 
account of a certain resemblance which such symbols 
are supposed to have to the objects in question. Thus, 
an eye was the symbol of knowledge, and a circle, 
having neither beginning nor end, the hieroglyphic of 
eternity. This kind of writing, has been most stu- 
died in Egypt — There it is found to have been reduced 
to a regular art. Through this medium their priests 
have, always, with the greatest " show of wisdom and 
will- worship," communicated their instructions. They 
have introduced animals as emblems of moral subjects: 
for instance — the fly, to represent imprudence — an 
ant, wisdom — and a hawk, to represent victory. The 
Chinese, Japanese, Tonquinese, and the Coraeans, 
have all used similar characters in writing; but it will 
always be found confused and enigmatical, and to be 
an extremely defective medium of knowledge ; as also, 
that of arbitrary marks, as the signs of objects, a man- 
ner of writing adopted by the Peruvians. 

Our arithmetical figures, are, however, like the hie- 
roglyphical character, signs of things and not of words. 
They have no dependence whatever, upon words 5 as 
each figure is a representation of a number for which 
it stands 5 and, consequently, is as well understood bj 



40 

one nation as another, where they have mutually 
adopted the use of such figures. To remedy all the 
defects, ambiguities, and prolixity of the foregoing 
methods of communication, as the first step, signs 
were invented, which did not stand distinctly for 
things, but for the words, by which things were na- 
med. This was an alphabet of syllables, which was 
prior to the invention of our alphabet of letters. It 
is said, such an alphabet is preserved even to the 
present period, in ^Ethiopia and the Indies. But 
this has been found deficient and ineffectual, as it re- 
tains much of that prolixity and confusion which cha- 
racterize symbolic writing. To whom the world is 
indebted for the discovery of letters, is a question 
which, as yet, has never been distinctly settled. VV e, 
however, know, they were brought into Greece, by one 
Cadmus, a Phoenician, who was a cotemporary with 
king David. His alphabet, however, contained only 
sixteen letters; the other letters were subsequently 
added, as appropriate signs for sounds were found to 
be wanting. The Hebrew, Phoenician, Greek, and 
Homan alphabets, bear so great a resemblance as to 
figures, names, and the order of the letters, that there 
remains no doubt, but they all were derived from one 
and the same origin. The ancient order of writing, 
was from the right hand to the left ; and this method 
appears from a variety of old inscriptions, to have 
prevailed even in Greece. After this, however, the 
Greeks practised writing alternately from the right to 
the left, and from the left to the right. This practice 
was continued until the days of Solon, the celebrated 
legislator, who gave law to Athens, forty years. 



41 

In process of time, beginning from the left and pro- 
ceeding to the right being found more natural and 
convenient, this, which is our present order of writ- 
ing, was adopted, and has generally obtained through- 
out the civilized world. 

This art was first exercised on pillars, and tables 
of stone—afterwards on plates of softer metals, such 
as lead ; and becoming more extensively practised, 
some nations resorted to the use of the leaves and 
bark of certain trees ; and others to tablets of wood, 
which they covered with a thin coat of soft wax, up- 
on which they produced the designed impression with 
a plate, or stylus of iron. Parchment manufactured 
from the skins of animals, was a later invention — and 
paper, which we now use, was an invention of the four- 
teenth century. 



Of Taste ; its Characteristits and Pleasures. 

Taste, has been defined, to be the power of receiv- 
ing pleasure and pain from the beauties and deformi- 
ties of nature and art. It is a faculty, which is com- 
mon to all mankind. 

To have some discernment of beauty and deformity, 
is no less essential to man, th an the faculties of rea- 
son and speech. The most prominent characteristics 
of a cultivated taste are, Delicacy, and Correctness. 
Delicacy of taste, refers principally to that natural 
sensibility on which taste is founded ; and supposes 

6 



42 

a possession of those exquisite and acute organs, or 
powers, which enable us to discern beauties which 
elude the notice of a vulgar eye. 

Correctness of taste, is a phrase, which denotes the 
improvement which that faculty receives through the 
medium and exercise of the understanding. And a 
man of correct taste will rarely be decoyed by ficti- 
tious beauties; but carries a standard of sound sense 
in his own mind, by which he is enabled to bestow a 
relative and proper estimate upon those productions 
of genius which come in his way. This is not, how- 
ever, an arbitrary principle, subject to the fancy and 
and caprice of every individual ; but admits of a cri- 
terion, by which we may determine whether it be true 
or false. There are beauties which, if displayed in 
a happy manner will be universally pleasing; and 
will be ceaselessly and universally admired. In all 
compositions, whatever powerfully affects the imagi- 
nation and the heart, will give pleasure to men, of 
every age, and nation. 

By criticism, is to be understood the application of 
taste, and refined sense, to the several fine arts. It 
originates wholly in experience ; or in the observa- 
tion of those beauties which have been found gene- 
rally pleasing to man. Genius is a word which ex- 
tends much farther than to the objects of taste — it de- 
notes that talent which we have received from our 
Maker, and which, prepares us to excel in any thing 
upon which we may be employed. This may be 
vastly improved by study and art, but can uever be 
by them produced. This faculty is of a higher order 
than that of taste ; as we find many persons who have 



43 

•a refined and elegant taste, in the fine and polite arts 
— but, who are, nevertheless, unable to execute any 
one of them in an excellent manner. 

The principal sources of the pleasures of taste, are 
sublimity and beauty; whether we refer to objects, 
or composition. The sublime in writing must always 
be laid in the nature of the object described. 

Of all writings, of any, and every age of the world, 
the sacred scriptures, afford the most happy and 
striking instances of the sublime. 

Beauty, next to sublimity, is supposed to afford 
the highest and most exquisite pleasure to the imagi- 
nation. Colour, figure, motion and imitation* are 
all considered sources of the pleasures of taste. Melo- 
dy, and harmony* also, contribute in a high degree to 
the same end ; and wit, humour, and ridicule, afford 
a great source of pleasure to this faculty — but we 
have neither time nor liberty, to extend the extract 
any further, but proceed to exhibit the subject of 
Style. 



Style, Perspicuity, and Precision. 



Style has been defined, to be the peculiar manner 
in which a man expresses his conceptions by means 
of language. It is a picture of the ideas which occupy 
his mind, and of the order in which they are there 



44 * 

produced. The principal qualities of a good style, 
are two— which are denominated, Perspicuity and 
Ornament. 

The study of these is indispensible in the formation 
of a proper style. Perspicuity, claims attention first, 
ii the choice of words and phrases, and then in the 
^construction of our sentences. And when we regard 
perspicuity as it respects words, and phrases, it re- 
quires purity, propriety, and precision. Purity* is a 
term used, to denote the use of such words, and such 
a mode of constructing; them, as is conformable to the 
idiom of the language which we use. This sentiment, 
it is apparent, is opposed to the use of those words 
and phrases, which, are either taken from other lan- 
guages ; or, are obsolete, newly coined, or such as 
are derived from no proper authority. Propriety ex- 
hibits the selection of such words, iu composing, as 
the best and most prevailing usage has appropriated 
to those ideas, we design to communicate by them. 
Precision denotes the pruning of our composition; 
and excluding every thing superfluous — so that the 
words used should express neither more nor less, 
than a precise and perfect transcript of the ideas we 
possess. 

A due attention to these particulars will, through 
the habit of steady practice, soon enable the orator to 
find his style improving. 



'If 



The common Characters op Style, have been ar- 
ranged, by Rhetoricians, in the following class— 
viz. the diffuse, concise, feeble, nervous, dry, plain P 
neat, elegant, flowery. 

That different subjects require, in order to be treat- 
ed properly, different kinds of style, is a position so 
obviously correct, that it needs no illustration. Every 
intelligent reader knows that an oration would require 
a differeut style, from that, which would be proper, 
in a philosophical essay. And it often happens, 
that an alteration in the of style is necessary in the 
different parts of the same composition. Still, in all 
this variety, we expect to perceive, in the compositioa 
of the same man, some prevailing characteristic of 
style and manner, which shall be suited to his genius, 
and show the impress of his peculiar turn of mind. 
A diffuse writer, unfolds, and displays his ideas in a 
full and glowing manner — a concise one in the fewest 
words possible. The nervous and feeble, are terms 
or characters of style, which generally represent the 
same ideas, as those denominated the concise and dif- 
fuse, though it is frequently observed, that diffuse 
writers exhibit no ordinary degree of strength. And 
a nervous writer, having his mind always filled with 
his subject, will give us a forcible and deep impres- 
sion of what he communicates. Every phrase, and 
figure which he uses, renders the assemblage of ima- 
gery, which he sets before us, more splendid, interest- 
ing, and perfect. The foregoing characteristics, how- 
ever, respect more particularly, the expressiveness of 






46 

an author's meaning. The following terms, re- 
spect the degree of ornament, which he employs, to 
grace, or embellish his style; viz. a dry, a plain, a 
neat, an elegant, and a flowery style. We define 
them thus — a dry style, is that which entirely ex- 
cludes all kinds of ornament — a plain style rises, in- 
deed, a little upon the dry; but admits of no consider- 
able ornament, as its author relies, almost exclusive- 
ly, upon his sense. A neat style, approximates the 
region of ornament, but not of the splendid kind. A. 
writer of this style, by his selection of words and their 
graceful location, evinces great partiality for the 
beauties of lauguage. His sentences are always free 
from the incumbrances of superfluous words ; of a mo- 
derate length, and inclining more to brevity, than to 
a swelling sonorous structure, and generally come to 
a graceful, and musical close. This kind of style is 
never improperly adopted, let the subject of the wri- 
ter be what it may. An elegant style denotes a 
greater decree of ornament still ; and with this we 
associate all the virtues and excellencies of ornament, 
in our power. It, however, implies great precision, 
and propriety ; purity in the choice of words ; and a 
skilful and happy talent, in giving them a harmoni- 
ous arrangement. It, moreover, implies the spread- 
ing over style all the beauties of the imagination, as 
far as the subject will allow it— and all the illustra- 
tion afforded by tropes and figures, when properly 
employed. A writer, of an elegant style, will never 
fail to delight the fancy and the ear ; and whilst he is 
imparting information to the mind, though he may 
clothe his ideas, with all the beauties and chastened 



47 

splendours of expression ; he must be careful never to 
overload them with Hl-timed, and misplaced frippery. 
A florid style, imports excessive ornament, and in 
young writers is, on the whole, considered desirable. 
But, it always requires pruning; and the fustian, 
tinsel splendour of language, which some writers con- 
tinually exhibit, is pitiable and contemptible. They 
seem not to know, indeed, the difference which ex- 
ists between a luscious collection of words, and an 
exuberant collection of the images of an enlivened, 
and creative fancy. Hence, the man of sense, on wit- 
nessing such productions ; especially, if the sentiment 
intended to be enforced, be either erroneous, or of lit- 
tle importance, (as is most frequently the case with 
writers of this style,) vull always think, that, "far- 
thest from them is best." 



Simple, affected, and vehement Style, defined and 
illustrated — and some directions, for the forming 
of a proper Style. 

The term simplicity, when applied to composition, 
is, like m ny other critical ones, often used too inde- 
finitely ; and the principal cause of this mistake is 
found, in the fact that writers have given this term, 
a great variety of meanings. It is proper, therefore, 
here, to make a distinction between them; and to 
show, in few words as possible, how simplicity, is 
properly applied to style. There are four distinct 
senses in which this word is used, by rhetorical wri- 
ters. The first, is simplicity of composition, which is 
opposed to too great a variety of parts. The second, 



4s 

is simplicity of thought, which is opposed to refine 
inent. The third, is that which is opposed to orna , 
ment, and pomp of language — and the fourth is that 
simplicity which appears in the easy and natural man- 
ner in which our language expresses our thoughts* 
In this last sense, simplicity is compatible with the 
highest ornament. Homer, for instance, exhibits this 
simplicity, in the highest perfection, and yet, no 
writer ever moved a pen, which was followed by such 
splendid ornament and beauty. This is a simplicity 
which always cherishes ornament, but not that which 
is affected; and is a 'primary excellence in composi- 
tion. The man who has attained this, gives no evi- 
dence of art in his expressions, but appears the real 
child of nature. It is not a writer, and labourer, that 
we here behold; but the man, in his own natural cha- 
racter. However rich in his expressions, and full in 
his figures and his fancy, these will appear to flow - 
voluntarily, ami without difficulty; not, however, be- 
cause he seems to have studied his subject well, but 
because it is a manner of expression, which, apparent- 
ly, perfectly accords with his taste, his circumstances^ 
and his nature. An affected style, is precisely the re- 
verse of a simple one; and a vehement style, denotes 
strength, and always accords with simplicity. It is dis- 
tinguished by a peculiar ardor. It is the language of a 
man whose imaginations and passions are glowing and 
impetuous. Paying little attention to the graces, he 
bears down with the force and thunder of a tremen- 
dous torrent. And this is the proper style, for the 
higher kinds of oratory — such was the style of a De- 
mosthenes; and ; sometimes, of a Cicero. Having stat 









49 

©d, and briefly explained the different characters of 
style ; we shall conclude with giving a few directions 
for attaining excellence in the art of composition. 

The first rule is, to become possessed of clear ideas 
on the subject, upon which we attempt to write or 
speak. 

The second is, to compose frequently; but not in a 
hasty and careless habit, as this will lead us to ac- 
quire a bad style. On the contrary, we must always, 
in composing, exercise the greatest care, particularly, 
when we commence the practice. The third is to 
make ourselves familiar with the productions of the 
best and most approved authors. The fourth is, to 
guard with great care, against an imitation of any 
particular author. The fifth is, always to endeavour 
to adapt our style to the subject, and to the capacity 
of our hearers, or readers. The sixth, and last rule 
is, to pay particular attention to our thoughts. Let 
the thoughts, or ideas always be important. Let it 
never be said of you, reader, that you are rich in 
words, but poor in sentiment. 



Worm of a Regular Discourse. 

We here present a form proper to be observed in 
making an oration, or any public discourse. The 
number of parts, requisite to form a regular discourse, 
is six and are denominated — the exordium, the divi- 
sion, the explication, and the reasoning; the pathetic, 



50 

and the conclusion. Tt is, however, not always neces- 
sary to incorporate the whole in every discourse ; nor 
that they should always be subject to the order here 
prescribed. Excellent discourses are frequently met 
with, in which some of the. parts here enumerated, are 
entirely omitted. Still, they an' the natural and neces- 
sary constituents of a well formed an 1 regular dis- 
course. And it is of no inconsiderable consequence 
to an orator, that he understand how to construct them 
well. The design of an introduction or exordium, is 
to engage the attention of the audience, and prepare 
their minds to yield to the art of persuasion. And 
the most able writers have often found the execution 
of this part of a discourse more difficult than that of 
any other. And hence it so often occurs, that intro- 
ductions, particularly those delivered "extempore," 
are neither suited to the nature of the subject to be 
discussed, nor to make a favourable impression upon 
the audience. To prevent an experience of this evil, 
public speakers should spare no pains, until they have 
acquired the talent, of executing this, with the most 
delicate refinements of art. It should be always na- 
tural, and consist of ideas suggested by the subject, 
and the circumstances of the occasion. It should be 
characterised by correctness and great modesty; not, 
however, betraying servility, nor anticipating any ma- 
terial part of the subject; and it should be duly pro- 
portioned as to its length. 

The execution of the part of a discourse, which ge- 
nerally comes next after the introduction, viz. the di- 
vision, or proposition; should be clear and distinct, 
and as concise and simple as possible — and the seve- 



51 

ral parts, whether formally announced or not, should be 
really distinct from each other; that is, no one should 
include another. And here we should be careful to 
follow the order of nature — beginning with the most 
simple points, and thence proceeding to the discussion 
of those which are the most important, and which 
suppose the former to be known. 

The division of the discourse should be such, as 
appears the most natural to the subject; and when 
this is the case— when the basis of a discourse is thus 
formed, the speaker or writer is prepared to proceed, 
and will encourage the hearer, or reader, to expect 
an interesting and elegant discourse. 

With respect to the style and manner, proper to be 
used, in either popular, or philosophical essays, or ser- 
mons ; it may be proper to observe that attention to 
the best authors, and those remarks upon the sub- 
ject, which are to be found in this compilation, with a 
due degree of practice and care, in the art of com- 
posing, will furnish correct and ample instructions. 



History. 

History is a record of events, and characters, for 
the instruction and benefit of mankind ; and the seve- 
ral characteristics of an historian should be impartia- 
lity, fidelity, gravity, and dignity, A due order and 



52 



connexion, and a clear and elevated style are almost 
indispensable in historical productions. 



Philosophical Writing. 

The professed and sole object of philosophy is in- 
struction. Hence, with philosophic writers, style, 
form, and dress, are considerations of minor conse- 
quence. It is, however, proper to remark, that they 
ought not to be entirely neglected ; for the same syl- 
logistic and philosophic reasonings, clothed in an ele- 
gant style, are more imposing and interesting, than 
they ever can be, in one that is unfashionable, dull, 
and dry. Strict precision, and accuracy, are in- 
dispensable characteristics of philosophic writings ; 
but these may easily be exhibited without resorting 
to the use of a dry style. We have examples of this 
kind of writing, which are highly polished specimens 
of style ; and, whilst it is urged, that the more mode- 
rate figures of speech are admissible and desirable, 
here; it must be remembered, that a florid, and tumid 
style are always to be avoided The elegant and 
beautiful style of Plato, and Cicero ; the rich and 
splendid one of Seneca; are very happy specimens of 
a proper style : and the style of Mr. Locke, in his 
Treatise on the Human Understanding, is, perhaps, 
the best model extant, of a clear, distinct, and proper 
philosophic style. 



Epistolary Writing. 

In Epistolary composition, the two principal charac- 
teristics, are familiarity and ease; and the fundamental 
requisites are nature, simplicity, sprightliness, and 
Wit. The style of letters* should give no evidence of 
study; hut appear, like that of animated conversation, 
to flow with perfect ease. Lord skdinghroke and 
Bishop iVtterhury have furnished finished specimens 
of this kind of composition. Mr Pope's are less 
happy, as they exhibit affectation, and too much study. 
Balzac and Voiture, in French, have been celebrated 
for this kind of style ; and, of a familiar correspon- 
dence, the most elegant and accomplished model, is 
that of the letters of Madame de Savigne. These 
abound with ease, variety, sprightliness, and beauty: 
and of many letter writers, in English, perhaps no 
one has furnished a more perfect model than that of 
the celebrated Lady Mary Wortley Montague. 



Fictitious History. 

This species of writing includes a numerous, but, 
generally speaking, an insignificant and worthless 
class of writings, called romances and novels. The 
influence, however, of these productions, is acknow- 
ledged to be universally great 5 and, though this kind 



- 51 

of composition has usually been employed for the ac- 
complishment of mischievous and ruinous purposes, 
yet, nevertheless, it might become productive of most 
desirable effects. When the object of a writer of 
romance, or novels, is to depict human life and man- 
ners; the erratic wanderings, as well as the perfec- 
tions of the passions and the mind — if the production 
be well executed — it may be perused with no less ad- 
vantage than pleasure. And, in accordance with this 
sentiment, even wise men, in different countries, hav'e 
propagated knowledge through the medium of fables 
and fictitious writings — and Lord Bacon has observ- 
ed, that the common afftirs of life, are insufficient to 
engage the mind of men of the world; — they must 
create worlds of their own, and wander into the re- 
gions of imagination. 

The compiler is, nevertheless, unalterably fixed in 
the sentiment, that romances and novels, taken in the 
aggregate, are to be condemned ; as they have consti- 
tuted no inconsiderable part of that complex and fear- 
ful machinery of corruption, which, in its merciless 
and tremendous course, from its commencement with 
Satan, in the garden of Eden, who successfully ad- 
dressed the passions of Eve, with a deceptive and 
damnable tale, has drawn within its vortex, the pos- 
sessors of beauty, virtue, talents, and integrity; and, 
after tormenting and grinding them into d-jst, has 
driven their infinitely precious souls to the dark and 
bottomless abyss ! 

Novels !— Romances !— Reader! " mark them— 
turn from them, and pass away!^ 



55 



Nature of Poetry — its origin and progress. 

Of the origin of Poetry, we may observe, it undoubt- 
edly existed prior to what is now called prose. Even 
the definition which is given of it, would lead to this 
conclusion. 

Poetry is the language of passion, or enlivened 
imagination; formed most commonly into regular num- 
bers. The object of a poet is to please and to move 
us, and hence his address is always made to the pas- 
sions and imagination. Man is, naturally, both a 
poet and a musician. The same impulse which in- 
duces us to use an enthusiastic poetic style, will pro- 
duce an elevated and harmonious modulation of the 
voice. Indeed, music and poetry are united in song, 
and mutually assist and exalt each other. The first 
poets sung their own productions; and hence the ori- 
gin of what we call versification, or the arrangement 
of words to some tune, or harmony. Poems and 
songs, are among the antiquities of all countries; and 
the occasions upon which they have been composed, 
are nearly the same. They comprise the celebration 
of gods, of heroes, and of victories. They abounded 
with enthusiastic and fine imagery, and are generally 
characterized by wildness, irregularity, and splendor. 
In the progress of society, however, poems assume 
different forms; — the variety of poetic composition is 
separated into classes, and the merit and appropriate 
rules of each, are distinctly assigned Odes, elegies 
epic poems, and dramatic and didactic poetry, are all 



56 

subject to particular regulations, and are proper ob- 
jects for the refined and discerning critic. 

We might furnish remarks upon the various kinds 
of poetry, sufficient to make a volume. Many ele- 
gant productions exist, which are more ingenious than 
useful. Pastoral, Jy ric, didactic, and descriptive po- 
etry, have severally engaged the attention and efforts 
of the ingenious and the learned ; but the brevity pro- 
posed by the compiler, will not admit of his giving 
them a place in this compilation. 



On the Eloquence of the Pulpit. 

The importance of pulpit eloquence, is acknowledg- 
ed by all; and the ungracious and slovenly manner, 
frequently complained of, in which many preachers 
treat their auditories, calls imjjeratively upon students 
in divinity, to pay more attention to this subject than 
lias heretofore been bestowed. The following senti- 
ments, from Dr. Blair, are highly important, and will 
doubtless afford both entertainment and a source of 
real improvement. 

This field of public speaking has, evidently, several advan- 
tages peculiar to itself. The dignity and importance of its 
tubjects must be allowed to be superior to any other. They 
admit of the highest embellishments in description, and the 
greatest warmth and vehemence of expression. In treating 
his subject, the preacher has also peculiar advantages. He 
speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a numerous assem- 
bly. He is not afraid of interruption. He chooses his sub- 



57 

ject at leisure; and has all the assistance which the most 
accurate premeditation can afford him. The disadvantages^ 
however, which attend the eloquence of the pulpit, are by 
no means inconsiderable. The preacher, it is true, has no 
contention with an adversary ; but debate awakens genius, 
and excites attention. His subjects, though noble, are trite 
and common. They are become so familiar to the public 
ear, that it requires no ordinary genius in the preacher, to 
fix the attention of his hearers. Nothing is more difficult, 
than to bestow on what is common the grace of novelty. Be- 
sides, the subject of the preacher usually confines him to ab- 
stract qualities, to virtues, and vices ; whereas, that of other 
popular speakers leads them to treat of persons ; which is a 
subject generally more interesting to the hearers, and which 
occupies more powerfully the imagination. We are taught 
by the preacher to detest only the crime ; by the pleader to 
detest the criminal. Hence it happens, that though the 
number of moderately good preachers is great, there are so 
few who have arrived at eminence. Perfection is very dis- 
tant, indeed, from modern preaching. The object, however, 
is truly noble and illustrious ; and worthy of being pursued 
with attention, ardor, and perseverance. 

To excel in preaching, it is necessary to have a fixed and 
habitual view of its end,and object. This, undoubtedly, is 
to persuade men to become good. Every sermon ought, 
^ msequently, to be a persuasive oration. It is not to dis- 
*■ :ss some abstruse point, that the preacher ascends the pul- 
"•y pit. It is not to teach his hearers something new, but to 
jnake them better : to give them, at the same time, clear 
views, and persuasive impressions of religious truth. 

The principal characteristics of pulpit eloqueuce, as distin- 
guished from the other kinds of public speaking, appear ,to be 
these two — gravity and warmth. It is neither easy nor com- 
mon to unite these characters of eloquence. The grave, when 
it is too predominant, becomes a dull, uniform solemnity 
The warm, when appit wants gravity, too near the. roaches 

8 



5S 

theatrical and light. A proper union of the two, forms that 
character of preaching which the French call Onction; that 
affecting, penetrating, and interesting manner r flowing from 
a strong sense in the preacher, of the importance of those 
truths which he delivers, and an earnest desire that they 
may make full impression on the hearts of his hearers. 

With regard to the composition of a sermon, a principal 
circumstance which must be attended to, is its unity. By 
this we mean, that there should be some main point to which 
the whole tenor of the sermon shall refer. It must not be 
a pile of different subjects heaped upon each other, but one 
object must predominate through the whole. Hence, how- 
ever, it must not be understood, that there should be no 
divisions or separate bends in the discourse; or that one 
single thought only should be exhibited in different points 
of view. Unity is not confined by such narrow limits; it 
admits of some varietv; it requires only that union and con- 
nection be so far preserved, as to make the whole occur in 
some one impression on the mind. Thus, for instance, a 
preacher may employ several different arguments to enforce 
the love of God; he may also inquire into the causes of the 
decay of this virtue ; still one object is presented to the 
mind : but, if because his text says r " He that loveth God, 
must love his brother also," he should, therefore, mix in the 
same discourse arguments for the love of God, and for the 
love of our neighbour, he would offend very much against 
unitv, and leave a very confused impression on the minds of 
his hearers. 

Sermons are always the more striking, and, generally, the- 
more useful, in proportion as the subject of them is more 
precise and particular. Unity can never be so complete in 
a general, as in a particular subject. General subjects, in- 
deed, such as the excellencies or the pleasures of religion, 
are often chosen by young preachers as the most showy, and 
the easiest to be handled ; and, no doubt, general views of 
religion, should not be neglected, since, on several occasions. 



m 

they have great propriety. But trrese subjects produce not 
the high effects of preaching. Attention is much more com- 
manded, by taking some particular view of a great object, 
and employing on that the whole force of argument and elo- 
quence. To recommend some one virtue, or inveigh against 
a particular vice, affords a subject not deficient in unity or 
precision ; but if that virtue or vice be considered as assum- 
ing a particular aspect, as it appears in certain characters, or 
affects certain situations in life, the subject becomes still 
more interesting. The execution is certainiy less easy, but 
the merit and the effect are higher. 

A preacher should be cautious not to exhaust his subject ; 
since nothing is more opposite to persuasion than an unne- 
cessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things 
which he may suppose to be known, and some which re- 
quire only a brief attention. If he endeavour to omit no- 
thing which his subject suggests, he must unavoidably en- 
cumber it, and debilitate its force. 

To render his instructions interesting to his hearers, should 
be the grand object of every preacher. He should bring 
home to their hearts the truths which he inculcates, and 
make each suppose that himself is particularly addressed. 
He should, consequently, avoid all intricate reasonings; 
avoid expressing himself in general speculative propositions 
or laying down practical truths in an abstract, metaphysical 
manner. A discourse ought to be carried on in the strain 
of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of one 
writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, and 
studying to connect what is called application, or what im- 
mediately refers to practice, with the doctrinal and didactic 
parts of the sermon. 

It is always highly advantageous to keep in view the dif- 
ferent ages, characters, and conditions of men, and to ac- 
commodate directions and exhortations to each of these dif- 
ferent classes. Whenever you advance what a man feels to 
touch his own character, or to be applicable to his own cir- 



60 

cumstances, you are sure of his attention. No study, here-* 
fore, is more necessary for a preacher, than the study of hu- 
man life, and^of the human heart To be able to discover 
a man to himself, in a light in which he never saw his own 
character before, produces a wonderful effect. Those ser- 
mons, though the most difficult in composition, are not only 
the most beautiful, but also the most useful, which are 
founded on the illustration of some peculiar character, or 
remarkable piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by the 
pursuit of which, we may trace, and lay open, some of the 
most secret windings of the human heart. Other topics of 
preaching have become trite and common ; but this is an 
extensive field, which has hitherto been little explored, and 
possesses all the advantages of being curious, new, and in 
the highest degree useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on the 
character of Balaam, is an example of this kind of preach- 
ing 

Fashion, which operates so extensively on human man- 
ners, has given to preaching, at different times, a change of 
character. This, however, is a torrent, which swells to-day 
and subsides to-morrow. Sometimes poetical preaching is 
fas ionable ; sometimes philosophical : — -at one time it must 
be all pathetic ; at another all argumentative; according as 
some celebrated preacher has afforded the example. Each 
of these modes in the extreme, is very defective ; and he 
who conforms himself to it, will both confine his genius, 
_and corrupt it. Truth and good sense are the only basis on 
which he can build with safety Mode and humour are 
feeble and unsteady. No example, however admired, should 
be servilely imitated. From various examples, the preacher 
mav collect materials for improvement ; but the servility of 
imitation will extinguish his genius, and expose its poverty 
to his hearers. 






SELECTIONS. 

IN POETRY AND PROSE. 

Extract from Cain — a Mystery — by lord byron* 

ACT III. SCENE I. 
The Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 
Enter Cain and Adah. 
Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain, 
Cain. I will; but wherefore? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Qi leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cam. Ay, the last — 

And longest; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go ufi to the child'. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid day rest is nearly over : 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young; : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and dap when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast pot pluck'd the fruit— 



62 



Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shah be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine r But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them j 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream : 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy. 

Adah Dear Cain ! N T ay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet si ter, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

Cain Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her. 

Adah. C'jn ! that proud spirit, who withdrew tnee hence, 
Kath sadden d thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
W T ould have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil . still I thank him, 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed :_ two long- hours 
To me, but only hour upon the sun 

Cain. And yet I have approach 'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had rolPd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguished worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 



63 



I had borrow'd more by a few drops of agesi 
From its immensity; but now, I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 



Collins' Ode on the Passions, 

WHEN Music, heav'nly maid, was young, 

Wh le yet in early Oreee she sung, 

The Passions, oft to hear her shell, 

Throng d around her magic cell, 

Exalting, trembling, raging, fainting, 

Possest, beyond the Muses' painting. 

By turns they felt the glowing mind 

Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin d. 

'Till once, tis said, when all were fir'd, 

Fill d with fury, rapt, inspir'd, 

From the sporting myrtles round 

They snatch'd her nstruments of sounds 

And as they oft had heard apart, 

Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 

Each, for madness rul'd the hour, 

Would prov his own expressive power; 

First Fear, its hand his skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, 

And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made. 

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 

In lightning own d his secret stings, 

In one rude clash he struck toe lyre, ' 

And swept with hurry'd hand the strings, 

With woful measures wan Depair^ 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguil'd 

A solemn, strange, and mi gled air, 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild, 

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure ? 

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure. 

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail t 

Still wou'd her touch the scene prolong, 

And from the rocks, the woods, the va'e 

She call'd on echo still, through all the song; 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice, was heard at every close, 

And Hope enchanted, smild, and wav'd her golden hair- 

And longer had she sung, but with a frown. 

Revenge impatient rose ; 



64 



He threw his blood stain'd sword in thunder down, 
And with a withering look, 
The war, denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo ; 
And ever and anon he beat 
The doubling drum with furious heat; 
And though, sometimes each dreary pause between, 
Dejected Pity at his side 
Her soul subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, nalter'd mein, 
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his 
head. 

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, 
Sad proof of thy distressful state, 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 
And now it courted love, now raving cail d on hate. 
With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, 
Pale Melancholy sat retired, 
And from her wild, sequester'd seat, 
In notes more distant made more sweet, 
Pou 'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 
And dashing soft from rocks around 
Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole. 
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 
Bound a holy calm diffusing, 
Love of peace and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 
But C>, how Iter d was its sprightlier tone; 
When cheerfulnes , a nymph of healthiest hue* 
Her bow across her shoulders flung, 
Her buskins gem d with morning dew, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung 
The hunter's call to fawn and dryad known ; 
The oak-crown'd sisters and their chaste-ey'd queer. 
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
Peeping forth from alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoicd to hear, 
And sport leapt up, and seiz'd the beachen spear. 

Last came, Joy's ecstatic trial, 
He, with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, 
But soon he saw the brisk awaking viol, 
Whose sweet advancing voice he lov'd the be~ 

They would have who heard the strain 
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids 
Amid the festal sounding shades,. 



65 



To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love fram'd with mirth, a gay fantastic round, 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 
And he amid his frolic play, 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings; 



On Cruelty to Animals. — a Tale. — by cowper. 

Where England stretch'd towards the setting sun, 
Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave } 
Dwelt young Misagathus A scorner he, 
Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, 
Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
He journey'd, and his chance was, as he went, 
To join a trav'ller of far diff 'rent note, 
Evander, fam'd for piety, for years 
Deserving honour, but for wisdom more* 
Fame had not left the venerable man, 
A stranger to the manners of the youth, 
Whose face too was familiar to his view. 
Their way was on the margin of the land, 
O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base 
Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high, 
The charity that warm'd his heart was moy'd 
At sight of the man-monster. With a smile, 
Gentle, and affable, and full of grace, 
As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
Much to persuade, he ply'd his ear with truths, 
Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, 
But like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. 
And dost thou dream, the impenetrable man 
Exclaim'd, that me, the lullabies of age, 
And fantasies of dotards, such as thou, 
Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me ? 
Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave 
Need no such aids as superstition lends, 
To steel their hearts against the dread of death. 
He spoke, and to the precipice at hand, 
Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, 
And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought 
Of such a gulph, as he design'd his grave. 
But though the felon on his back could dare 
The dreadful leap, more rational his steed 
Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly rounds 

9 



66 



Or ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, 

Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will. 

The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd, 

By medcine well applied, but without grace, 

The heart's insanity admits no cure. 

Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd 

His horrible intent ; again, he sought 

destruction, with zeal to be destroy'd, 

With sounding whip, and rowels dy'd in blood. 

But still in vain. The providence that meant 

A longer date to the far nobler beast, 

Spar'd yet again th' ignobler for his sake. 

And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere 

Incurable obduracy evine'd, 

His rage grew cool ; and pleas'd, perhaps, t' have earn'd 

So cheaply, the renown of that attempt, 

With looks, of some complacence, he resum'd 

His road, deriding much the blank amaze 

Of good Evander, still where he was left, 

Fixt motionless, and petrified with dread. 

So on they far'd ; discourse on other themes 

Ensuing, seem'd to obliterate the past, 

And tamer far for so much fury shown, 

(As is the course of rash and fiery men) 

The rude companion smil'd, as if transform'd. 

But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near. 

An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. 

The impious challenger of pow'r divine 

Was now to learn, that heaven, though slow to wrath, 

Is never with impunity defy'd. 

His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, 

Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, 

Unbidden, and not now to be control'd, 

Rush'd to the cliff, and having reach'd it, stood. 

At once the shock unseated him. He flew 

Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and immers'd 

Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, 

The death he had deserv'd, and dy'd alone. 

So God wrought double justice made the fool 

The victim of his own tremendous choice, 

And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. 



Address to Messiah. — by cowper. 

Come then, and added to thy many crowns, 
Rccieve yet one, the crown of all the earth. 



Thou who alone art worthy ! it was thine 

By ancient cov'nant, ere nature's birth, 

And thou hast made it thine by purchase since, 

And overpaid its value with thy blood. 

Thy saints proclaim thee King ; and in their hearts, 

Thy title is engraven with a pen 

Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. 

Thy saints proclaim thee King ; and thy delay 

Gives courage to their foes, who, could they sec 

The dawn of thy last advent long desir'd, 

Would creep into the bowels of the hills, 

And flee for safety to the falling rocks. 

The very spirit of the world is tir'd . 

Of its own taunting question ask'd so long, 

" Where is the promise of your Lord's approach I 9 

The infidel has shot his bolts away, 

Till his exhausted quiver yielding none, 

He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, 

And aims them at the shield of truth again. 

The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands. 

That hides divinity from mortal eyes, 

And all the mysteries to faith proposed 

Insulted and traduc'd, are cast aside 

As useless, to the moles, and to the bats. 

They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd, 

Who constant only in rejectng thee, 

Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, 

And quit their office for their error's sake. 

Blind, and in love with darkness ! yet even these, 

Worthy, compar'd with sycophants, who kneel, 

Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man* 

So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare, 

The world takes little thought ; who will may preach; 

And what they will. All pastors are alike 

To wand'ring sheep, resolv'd to follow none. 

Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain. 

For these they live, they sacrifice to these, 

And in their service wage perpetual war 

With conscience, and with thee. Lust in their hearts, 

And mischief in their hands, they roam the eartli 

To prey upon each other ; stubborn, fierce, 

High minded, foaming out their own disgrace. 

Thy prophets speak of such ; and noting down 

The features of the last degenerate times, 

Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these. 

Come then, and added to thy many crowns, 

Receive yet one, as radient as the rest, 

Due to thy last, and most effectual work, 

Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world. 



65 

On the Power and Influence of an Individual. 
BY PRESIDENT NOTT. 

Thus the impulse given either to virtue or to vice, by a single individual, 
may be immeasurably extended, even to distant nations, and communica- 
ted through succeeding ages to the remotest generations. 

Yoltaire, Rosseau, and their infidel coadjutors, collected their materials 
and laid a train which produced that fatal explosion, uhich shook the civi- 
lized world to its centre. Governments were dismembered ; monarchies 
were overthrown; institutions were swept away; society was flung into 
confusion ; human life was endangered Years have elapsed, the face of 
Europe is yet covered with wrecks and desolations ! and how long before 
the world will recover from the disastrous shock their conspiracy occa- 
sioned, God only knows. And yet Voltaire, Rosseau and their infidel co- 
adjutors w.-re individuals. 

Did not Cyrus sway the opinions, awe the fears, and direct the energies 
of the world at Babylon? Did not Cssar do 'his a* Rome, and Constan- 
tine at Byzantium? and yet Cyrus, Caesar and Constantine, were individu- 
als — But. they were fortunate ; they lived at critical conjunctures, and in 
fields of blood gathered immortally. And is it at critical conjunctures and 
in fields of blood only, that immortally can be gathered ? 

Where then is Howard, that saint of illustrious memory, who traversed 
his native country, exploring ihe jail and the prison-ship and taking the 
dimensions of that misery which these caverns of vice, of disease and of 
death had so long concealed — VVhose heroic deeds of charity, the dun- 
geons alike of Europe and of Asia witnessed, and whose bones now conse- 
crate the confines of distant 1'artary, where he fell a martyr to his zeal, 
when like an angel of peace, he was engaged in conveying through the 
cold, damp, pestilential cells of Russian Crimea, the lamp of hope and the 
cup of consolation to the incarcerated slave, who languished unknown, 
unpitied, and forgotten there. 

Where is Grenville Sharp, the negro's advocate, whose disinterested ef- 
forts, whose seraphic eloquence, extorted from a court tinctured with the 
remains of feudal tyranny, that memorable decision of lord Mansfield, 
which placed an eternal shield between the oppressor, and the oppressed; 
which raised a legal barrier around the very person of the enslaved Afri- 
can, and rendered liberty thereafter, inseparable from the soil of the sea- 
girt isles of Britain. It was this splendid triumph of reason over passion, 
of justice over prejudice, that called from the Irish orator, that burst of 
ingenuous feeling, at the trial of Rowan, when he said — *' 1 speak in the 
spirit of the British law, which proclaims even to the stranger and the so- 
journer, the moment he sets his foot on British earth, that the ground on 
which he treads is holy. No matter in what language, his doom may 
have been pronounced; — No matter what complexion incompatible with 
freedom ; an Indian, or an African sun may have burnt upon him ; — No 
matter in what disastrous battle bis liberty may have been cloven down : 
—•No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the 
altar of slavery ; the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, 
the altar, and the God sink together in the dust; his soul walks abroad in 
her own majesty; his body swells beyond the measure of his chains, that 
burst from around him, and he stands redeemed, emancipated, disen- 
thralled, by irresistable genius of universal emancipation" 

Where is Clarkson, who has been so triumphantly successful in wiping 
away the reproach of slavery from one quarter of the globe, and in restor- 






69 

jr.g to the rights of fraternity more than twenty millions of the humane 
family — that man, who after so many years of reproach and contumely; 
after suffering's and perseverance which astonish as much as they instruct 
us, succeeded in turning the current of national feeling ; in awakening 
the sense of national justice, and finally in obtaining, from the parliament 
of England, that glorious act, the abolition of the slave trade — An act to 
which the royal signature was affixed at noon day, and just as the sua 
reached the meridian: a time fitly chosen for the consummation of so 
splendid a transaction — a transaction which reflects more honor on the 
king, the parliament, and the people, than any other recorded in the annals 
of history. Where is this man, whose fame I had rather inherit than that of 
Caesar — for it will he more deathless as it is already more sacred. And 
should Africa ever arise from its present degradation, and rise it will, if 
there be any truth in God, what a perpetual flow of heartfelt eulogy will, 
to a thousand generations, commemorate the virtues, the sufferings and 
the triumph of the ingenuous, the disinterested, the endeared, the immor- 
tal Clarfcspn — the Negro's friend — the black man's hope — the despised 
African's benefactor ! 

Where is Lancster, who has introduced, and is introducing a new era 
in the history of letters, and rendering the 7 houses of education, like the 
temples of grace, accessible to the poor ? Owing to whose exertions and 
enterprizes thousands of children, picked from the dirt and collected 
from the streets, are this day enjoying the inestimable benefits of educa- 
tion, and forming regular habits of industry and virtue, who must other- 
wise have been doomed by the penury of their condition to perpetual ig- 
norance, and probably to perpetual misery. 

Ah ! had this man lived but two thousand years ago, to say nothing of 
the effect which might have been produced on moraU and happiness ge- 
nerally, by the general diffusion of knowledge, and the regular formation, 
of habits — to say nothing of that vulgarity which would have been dimin-^ 
ished, nor of that dignity which might have been imparted to the charac- 
ter of the species — Could this man have lived two thousand years ago, and 
all the rude materials in society have undergone only that slight polishing 
which, under his fostering care, they are now likely to undergo, how many 
mines of beauty and richness would have appeared ! How many gema 
made visible by their glittering, would have been collected from among 
the rubbish ! Or, to speak without a figure, had this man lived two thou- 
sand years ago, how much talent might have been discovered for the 
church, for the state, for the world, among those untutored millions who 
have floated unknown and unnoticed down the tide of time. Had this man 
lived two thousand years ago, how many Demosthenes might have light- 
ened and thundered ? How many Homers soared and sung ? How many 
Newtons roused into action, to develope the laws of matter ? How many 
Lockes to explore the regions of mind? How many Mansfields to exalt 
the bench ? How many Erskines to adorn the bar? And perhaps some 
other Washington, whose memory has now perished in obscurity, might 
have been forced from the factory or the plow to decide the fate of battle, 
and sustain the weight of empire. 

And yet Howard, Sharpe, Ciarkson and Lancaster, were individuals ; and 
individuals too, gifted by no extraordinary talents ; fovoured by no pecu- 
liar theatre of action. They were only common men brought up in the 
midst of common life. No princely fortunes had descended to them ; no 
paternal influence had devolved on them ; no aspiring rivals provoked 
their emulation ; no great emergencies roused their exertions. They pro- 
duced, if 1 may so speak, the incidents which adorn their history, and cre- 
ated for themselves a theatre of action. Animated by the purest virtue, 
and bent on being useful, they seized on the miseries of life, as the world 



70 

presented them; and by deeds of charity and valour performed in reliev- 
ing those miseries, they converted the very abodes of ignorance and wo in- 
to a theatre of glory. 

And, young gentlemen, after all that has been done by these patrons of 
virtue, these benefactors of mankind, remains there no prejudice to cor- 
rect; no ignorance to instruct; no vice to reclaim ; no misery to alleviate ? 
Look around you — still there is room for youthful enterprise, for manly 
exertion. Go, then, into the world ; cherish the spirit, imitate the exam- 
ple, and emulate the glory of these illustrious worthies. Let no disasters 
shake your fortitude ; let no impediments interrupt your career. Come 
what will, of this be assured, that in every enterprise of good, God will 
be on your side ; and that should you even fail, failure will be glorious — 
Nor will it ever be said in heaven of the man who has sincerely laboured 
on the earth to glorify his God, or benefit his country, that he has lived in 
vain. 



On Card Playing— by president nott. 



Games of hazard, particularly where cards are concerned, tend imper- 
ceptibly to gambling. 

Play, at first, is resorted to as a pastime, and the gamester becomes an 
idler only. This is the inceptive step. But mere play has not enough of 
interest in it, to excite a continued attention, even in the most frivolous 
of minds. To supply this defect, the passion of avarice is addressed by 
the intervention of a trifling stake. This is the second step. The third 
is deep and presumptuous gambling; here, all the adventurer can com- 
mand, is hazarded, and gain not amusement, becomes the powerful motive 
that inspires him. These are the stages of play at cards, that delusive 
and treacherous science, which has beggared so many families, made so 
many a youth, a profligate ; and blasted forever, so many a parent's hope ! 

But is a stake, at play, wrong in principle? It is so. Nor is the nature 
of the transaction changed by any increase, or diminution of amount. Not 
thai it is a crime to hazard, but to hazard wrongfully; to hazard, where no 
law authorizes it ; where neither individual prudence, nor any principle of 
public policy requires it. Property is a trust, and the holder is responsi- 
ble for its use. He may employ it in trade; he may give it in charity. But 
he may not wantonly squander it away ; he may not even lightly hazard the 
loss of it for no useful purpose, and where there is no probability, that the 
transaction will, on the whole be beneficial, either to the parties, or to the 
community. 

But I may not pass thus lightly over this article. The nature of gam- 
bling considered as an occupation, and the relative situation of gamblers 
ought to be attended to. The issue which the parties join; the rivalship 
in which they engage, neither directly nor indirectly, promotes any inter- 
est of community. It has no relation to agriculture, none to commerce, 
none to manufactures. It furnishes no bread to the poor ; it holds out no 
motive to industry; it applies no stimulus to enterprise. It is an employ- 
ment, sui generis. The talent it occupies is so muth deducted from that 
intelligence, which superintends the concerns of the world. The capital 
it employs, is so much withdrawn from from the stock required for the com- 
merce of the world. Let the stake be gained or lost, as it will, society 



71 

gains nothing. The managers of this ill-appropriated fund are not identifi- 
ed in their pursuits, with any of those classes, whose ingenuity, or whose 
labours benefit society ; nor by any of the rapid changes, through which 
their treasure passes, is there any thing produced by which community is 
indemnified. 

Their situation with respect to each other, is as singular, ond unnatural 
as is their situation with respect to the rest of mankind- Here again the 
order of nature is reversed ; the constitution of God is subverted ; and an 
association is formed, not for mutual benefit, but for acknowledged and 
mutual injury. Precisely so much as the one gains, precisely so much the 
other loses. No equivalent is given ; none is received The property in- 
deed changes hands ; but its quality is not improved ; its amount is not 
augmented 

In the mean time, the one who loses, is a profligate, who throws away, 
without any requital, the property he possesses. The one who gains is a 
ruffian, who pounces, like a vulture, en the property which he possesses 
not, and has acquired no right to possess ; and both are useless members 
of society, a mere excrescence on the body politic. Worse than this : 
they are a nuisance ; like leeches on the back of some mighty, and health- 
ful animal, which though they suck their aliment from its blood, contri- 
bute nothing to its subsistence. — No matter how numerous these vaga- 
bonds, for I will not call them by a more reputable name, may be in any 
community; no matter how long they may live, or how assiduously they 
may proseoute their vocation. No monument of good, the product of that 
vocation will remain behind them. They will be remembered only by the 
waste they have committed, or the injury they have done, while with 
respect to all the useful purposes of being, it will be as if they had never 
been. 

And is there no guilt in such an application of property as this ! Did 
Almighty God place mankind here for an occupation so mean ! Did he 
bestow on them treasures for an end so ignoble ! — If Jesus Christ con- 
demned to utter darkness that unprofitable servant, who having wrapped 
his talent in a napkin only, buried it in the earth : what think you will be 
his sentence on the profligate, who, having staked and lost his all, goes 
from the gaming table, a self created pauper, to the judgment seat! Nor 
will the Judge less scrupulously require an account of the cents you have 
amusively put down at piquet, than he would, though you had played 
away at brag the entire amount of the shekel of the sanctuary. 

But you do not mean to gamble, nor to advovcate it I know it. But I 
also know if you play at all, you will ultimately do both. It is but a line 
that separates between innocence and sin. Whoever fearlessly approach- 
es this line, will soon have crossed it. To keep at a distance, therefore, 
is the part of wisdom. No man ever made up his mind to consign to per- 
dition his soul at once. No man ever entered the known avenues, which 
conduct to such an end, with a firm and undaunted step. Tue brink of 
ruin is approached with caution, and by imperceptible degrees ; and the 
wretch who now stands fearlessly scoffing there, but yesterday had 
shrunk back from the tottering cliff, with trembling. Do you wish for 
illustration ? The profligate's unwritten history will furnish it. How in- 
offensive its commencement, how sudden, and how awfulits catastrophe! 
Let us review his life. He commences with play; but it is only for 
amusement. Next he hazards a triflle to give interest, and is surprised 
when he finds himself a gainer by the hazard, lie then ventures, not 
without misgivings, on a deeper stake. That stake, he loses. The loss 
and the guilt oppress him. He drinks, to revive his spirits. His spirits 
revived, he stakes to retrieve his fortune.. Again he is unsuccessful, and 
again his spirits flag, and again the inebriating cup revives them. Ere ha 



72 

is aware of it, he has become a drunkard ; he has become a bankrupt. 
Resource fails him. His fortune is gone ; his character is gone ; his ten- 
derness of conscience is gone. — God has withdrawn his spirit from him. 
The demon of despair takes possession of his bosom ; reason deserts him. 
he becomes a maniac ; the pistol or the poignard close the scene, and with 
a shriek he plunges, unwept, and forgotten, into hell. 

But there are other lights in which this subject should be viewed. The 
proper aliment of the body is ascertained by its effects. Whatever is nu- 
tricious is selected ; whatever is poisonous, avoided. Let a man of com- 
mon prudence, perceive the deleterious effects of any fruit, however fair 
to the eye; however sweet to the taste — let him perceive these effects, in 
the haggard countenances and swollen limbs of those who have been par- 
taking of it, and though he may not be able to discover wherein its vi- 
ciousness consists, he admits that it is vicious, and shrinks from the parti- 
cipation of a repast in which some secret poison lurks, that proves fatal 
to many and injurious to most who hitherto have tasted it. Why should 
not the same circumspection be used with respect to the aliment of the 
mind? It should undoubtedly. But gaming presents even a stronger case 
than the one we have supposed. For not only the fact but the reason of 
it is obvious. So that we may repeat what has been already said of games 
of hazard, that they impart no expansion or vigour to the mind, and that 
their influence on the affections, andpassiom, and heart are deleterious. 

When I affirm, that these games impart no expansion or vigour to the 
mind, I do not im an to be understood that they are or can be performed 
entirely without intellection. It is conceded, that the silliest game re- 
quires some understanding, and that to play at it, is above the capacity of 
an oyster, perhaps of an ox or of an ape. It is conceded too, that games 
of every sort require some study ; the most of them however, require but 
little ; and after a few first efforts, the intellectual condition of the game- 
ster, so far as his occupation is concerned, is but one degree removed 
from that of the dray-horse, buckled to his harness, and treading over 
from day to day, and from night to night, the same dull track, as he turns 
a machine which some mind of a higher order has invented. So very hum- 
ble is this species of occupation; so very limited the sphere in which it 
allows the mind to operate, that if an indivual were to remain through the 
term of his existence, mute and motionless, in the winter state of the Nor- 
wegian bear, his intellectual career would be about as splendid, and his 
attainments in knowledge about as great as they would, were he to 
commence play in childhood, and continue on at whist or loo to 
eternity. For though the latter state of being, pre-supposes some exer- 
cise of the mental faculties, it is so little, so low, and so uniform, that if 
the result be not literally nothing, it approaches nearer to it than the re- 
sult of any other state of being, to which an intelligent creature can be 
doomed, short of absolute inanity, and death. 

How unlike in its effect, must be this unmeaning shuffle of cards; this 
eternal gaze, on the party coloured surface of a few small pieces of paste- 
board, where nothing but spades, and hearts, and diamonds, and clubs, 
over and over again, every hour of the day, every hour of the night, meet 
the sleepless eye of the vacant beholder — how unlike must be the effect 
of this pitiful employment, continued for fifty or for seventy years, to :hat, 
which would have been produced on the same mind, in the same period, 
by following the track of Newton, to those sublime results, whither he 

has led the way in the regions of abstraction -By communing with the 

soul of Bacon, deducing from individual facts, the universal laws of the 
material universe ; or by mounting with Herschell, to the Athene um of 
the firmament, and learning direct from the volume of the stars, the sci 
ence of astronomy ?— How unlike to that which would have been produced. 



78 

in the same period, by ranging with Paley, through the department of 
morals ; by soaring with Harvey on the wing of devotion, or even by tra- 
cing the footsteps of Tooke, amid the mazes of philology ? 

Card-playing has not even the merit of the common chit-chat of thetea- 
table. Here there is some scope for reason ; some for a play of fancy, some 
occasion for mental effort; some tendency to habits of quick association, 
in attack, in repartee, and the various turns, resorted to for keeping up, 
and enlivening conversation Much less has it the merit of higher and more 
rational discourse, of music, of painting, or of reading. 

Indeed, if an occupation were demanded for the express purpose of per- 
verting the human intellect, and humbling, and degrading, and narrowing, 
I had almost said annihilating, the soul of man, one more effectual, could 
not be devised, than the one the gamester has already devised and pre-oc- 
cupied. And the father and mother of a family, who instead of assembling 
their children in the reading-room, or conducting them to the altar, seat 
them, night after night, beside themselves at the gaming table, do, so fat- 
as this part of their domestic economy is concerned, contribute not only to 
quench their piety, but also to extinguish their intellect, and convert them 
into automatons, living mummies, the mere mechanical members of a do- 
mestic gambling machine, which, though but little soul is necessary, re- 
quires a number of human hands to work it. And if under such a blight- 
ing culture, they do not degenerate into a state of mechanical existence, 
and gradually losing their reason, their taste, their fancy, become incapa- 
ble of conversation ; the fortunate parents may thank the school-house, the 
church, the library, the society of friends, or some other and less wretch- 
ed part of their own defective system, for preventing the consummation of 
so frightful a result- 
Such, young gentlemen, are the morbid and sickly, effects of play upon 
the human intellect. But intelligence constitutes no inconsiderable part 
of the glory of man; a glory, which, unless eclipsed by crime, increases, 
as intelligence increases. Knowledge is desirable with reference to this 
world, but principally so with reference to the next; not because philoso- 
phy, or language, or mathematics will certainly be pursued in heaven ; 
but because the pursuit of them on earth, gradually communicates that 
quickness of perecption, that acumen which, as it increases, approximates 
towards the sublime and sudden intuition of celestial intelligences, and 
which cannot fail to render more splendid the commencement, as well as 
more splendid the progression of man's interminable career. 

But while gaming leaves the mind to languish, it produces its full ef- 
fect on the passions, and on the heart. Here however that effect is delete- 
rious. None of the sweet and amiable sympathies, are at the card-table 
called into action. Ho throb of ingenuous and philanthropic feeling, is 
excited by this detestable expedient for killing time, as it is called; and 
it is rightly so called ; for many a murdered hour will witness at the day 
of judgment, against that fashionable idler, who divides her time between 
her toilet and the card-table, no less than against the profligate, hackney- 
ed in the ways of sin, and steeped in all the filth and debauchery of gam- 
bling. But it is only amidst the filth and debauchery of gambling, that the 
full effects of card-playing on the passions and on 'the heart of man are 
seen. 

Here that mutual amity, that elsewhere subsists, ceases ; paternal affec-v 
tion ceases ; even that community of feeling that piracy excites, and that 
binds the very banditti together has no room to operate; for at this inhos- 
pitable board, every man's interest, clashes with every man's interest, and, 
every man's hand is literally against every man. 

The love of mastery, and the love of money, are the purest loves, of 
which the gamester is susceptible. And even the love of mastery, loses 

10 



74 

all its nobleness, and degenerates into the love of lucre, which ultimately 
predominates and becomes the ruling passion. 

Avarice is always base , but the gamester's avarice is doubly so It is 
avarice unmixed with any ingredient of magnanimity, or mercy. Avarice, 
that wears not even the guise of public spirit ; that claims not even the 
meagre praise of hoarding up its own hard earnings. On the contrary, it 
is an avarice, that wholly feeds upon the losses, and only delights itself 
with the miseries of others Avarice, that eyes, with covetous desire, 
whatever is not individually its own ; that crouches to throw its fangs 
over thai booty, by which its comrades are enriched. Avarice, that stoops 
to rob a traveller, that sponges a guest, and that would filch the very 
dust from t he pocket of a friend. 

But, though avarice predominates, other related passions are called into 
aGtion. The bosom, that was once serene and tranquil, becomes habitu- 
ally perturbed. Envy rankles ; jealousy corrodes ; anger rages, and hope 
and fear alternately convulse the system. The mildest disposition grows 
morose : the sweetest temper becomes fierce and fiery, and all the once 
amiable features of the heart assume a malignant aspect! —Features of 
the heart, did I say? Pardon my mistake. The finished gambler has none. 
Though his intellect may not be ; though his soul may not be ; his heart 
is quite annihilated. 

Thus habitual gambling, consummates what habitual play commences. 
Sometimes its deadening influence prevails, even over female virtue, 
eclipsing all the loveliness, and benumbing all the sensibility of woman. 
In every circle, where cards, form the bond of union, frivolity and heart- 
lessness, become alike characteristic of the mother and the daughter ; 
devotion ceases ; domestic care is shaken off, and the dearest friends, 
even before their burial, are consigned to oblivion. 

This is not exaggeration. I appeal to fact. Madame du DefFand, was 
certainly not among the least accomplished, or the least interesting fe- 
males, who received and imparted that exquisite tone of feeling, that per- 
vaded the most fashionable society of modern Paris. And yet it is record- 
ed of her, in the correspondence of the Baron De Grimm, whose veracity 
will not be questioned, that when her old and intimate friend and admi- 
rer, M. de Ponte de Vesle, died, this celebrated lady came rather late to 
a great supper, in the neighbourhood ; and as it was known, that she made 
it a point of honour, to attend him, the catastrophe was generally suspect- 
ed. She mentioned it however, herself, immediately, on entering ; adding 
that it was lucky he had gone off so early in the evening, as she might 
otherwise have been prevented from appearing. She then sat down to 
table, and made a very hearty and merry meal of it. 

Afterwards, when Mad: de Chatelet, died, Mad. du Deflfand, testified 
her grief for the most intimate of all her female acquaintance, by circula- 
ting over Paris, the very next morning, the most libellous and venomous 
attack on her person, her understanding, and her morals. 

This utter heartlessness, this entire extinction of native feeling, was 
not peculiar to Mad. du DefFand ; it pervaded that accomplished, and 
fashionable circle, in which she moved. Hence, she herself, in her turn, 
experienced the same kind of sympathy, and her remembrance was con- 
signed to the same instantaneous oblivion. During her last illness, three 
of her dearest friends used to come and play cards, every night, by the 
side of her couch — and as she chose to die in the middle of a very inter- 
esting game, they quietly played it out— and settled their accounts before 
leaving the apartment.* 

* See Quarterly Review 



75 

I do not say that such are the uniform, but I do say, that such are the 
natural and legitimate effects of gaming on the female cnaracter. The 
love of pla\ is a Demon, which only takes possession, as it kills the heart. 
But, if such is the effect of gaming, on the one sex, what must be its ef- 
fect on the other ? Will nature long survive in bosoms invaded, not by 
gaming only, but also by debauchery and drunkennness, those sister Fu- 
ries, which hell has let loose, to cut off our young men from without, and 
our children from the streets ? No, it will not. As we have said, the fin- 
ished gambler has no heart. The club with which he herds, would meet, 
though ail its members were in mourning. They would meet, though the 
place of rendezvous were the chamber of the dying ; they would meet, 
though it were an apartment in the charnel-house. Not even the death of 
kindred can affect the gambler. He would play upon his brother's coffin ; 
he would play upon his father's sepulchre. 

Yonder see that wretch, prematurely old in infirmity, as well as sin. 
He is the father of a family The mother of his children, lovely in her 
tears, strives, by the tenderest assiduities, to restore his health, and with 
it, to restore his temperence, his love of home, and the long-lost charms 
of domestic life. She pursues him by her kindness, and her entreaties to 
his haunts of vice; she reminds him of his children; she tells him of their 
virtues; of their sorrows ; of their wants; and she adjures him, by the 
love of them, and by the love of God, to repent, and to return. Vain at- 
tempt ! She might as well adjure the whirlwind ; she might as well en- 
treat the tiger. 

The brute has no feeling left. He turns upon her in the spirit of the 
demons with which he is possessed He curses his children and her who 
bare them j and as he prosecutes his game, he fills the intervals with im- 
precations on himself; with imprecations on his maker ; imprecations bor- 
rowed from this dialect of devils, and uttered with a tone that befits only 
the organs of the damned ! And yet in this monster there once dwelt the 
spirit of a man. He had talents, he had honour, he had even faith. He 
might have adorned the senate, the bar, the altar. But alas ! his was a faith 
that saveth not. The gaming table has robbed him of it, and of all things 
else that is worth possessing. What a frightful change of character ! What 
a tremendous wreck, is the soul of man in ruins ! 

Return disconsolate mother to thy dwelling, and be submissive ; thou 
shalt become a widow, and thy children fatherless. Further efforr will 
be useless — the reformation of thy partner is impossible. God has forsa- 
ken him— nor will good angels weep, or watch over him any longer. 



76 



Mr. Phillips' Address to the Kill 



&• 



Sire, 
When I presume to address you on the subject which afflicts and agi- 
tates the country, I do so with the most profound sentiments of respect 
and loyalty. But 1 am no flatterer. I wish well to your illustrious house, 
and therefore address you in the tone of simple truth — the interests of 
the King and Queen are identified, and her majesty's advocate must be 
your's. The degradation of any branch of your family, must, in some de- 
gree, compromise the dignity of all, and be assured there is as much dan- 
ger as discredit in familiarizing the public eye to such a spectacle. I 
have no doubt that the present exhibition is not your royal wish ; I have 
no doubt it is the work of wily sycophants and slanderers, who have per- 
suaded you of what they know to be false, in the base hope that it may 
turn out to be profitable. With the view, then, of warning you against 
interested hypocrisy, and of giving to your heart its natural humane and 
noble inclination, I invoke your attention to the situation of your persecu- 
ted consort I I implore of you to consider whether it would not be for the 
safety of the state, for the tranquillity of the country, for the honour of 
your house, and for the interests alike of royalty and humanity, that an 
helpless female should be permitted to pass in peace the few remaining 
years which unmerited misery has spared to her. 

It is now, Sire, about five and twenty years since her majesty landed on 
the shores of England— a princess by birth — a queen by marriage — the re- 
lative of kings — and the daughter and the sister of a hero. She was then 
young— direct from the indulgence of a paternal court — the blessing of her 
aged parents, of whom she was the hope and stay— and happiness shone 
brightly o'er her; her life had been all sunshine — time for her had only 
trod on flowers ; and if the visions which endear, and decorate and hallow 
home, were vanished for ever, still did she resign them for the sacred 
name of wife, and sworn affection of a royal husband, and the allegiance 
of a glorious and gallant people. She was no more to see her noble father's 
hand unhelm the warriors brow to fondle over his child — no more for her 
a mother's tongue delighted as it taught, that ear which never heard a 
strain, that eye which never opened on a scene, but those of careless, 
crimeless, cloudless infancy, was now about to change its dulcet tones and 
fairy visions for the accent and the country of the stranger. But she 
had heard the character of Britons — she knew that chivalry and courage 
co-existed — she knew that where the brave man and the free man dwelt, 
the very name of woman bore a charmed sway, and where the voice of 
England echoed your royal pledge, to " love and worship, and cleave to 
her alone," she but locked upon your Sire's example, and your nation's 
annals, and was satisfied— Pause and contemplate her enviable station at 
the hour of these unhappy nuptials ! The created world could scarcely 
exhibit a more interesting spectacle. There was no earthly bliss of which 
she was not either in the possession or the expectancy. Royal alike by 
birth and alliance — honoured as the choice of England's heir, reputed the 
most accomplished gentleman in Europe — her reputation spotless as the 
unfallen snow — her approach heralded by a people's prayer, and her foot- 
steps obliterated by an obsequious nobility — her youth, like the lovely sea- 
son which it typified, one crowded garland of rich and fragrant blossoms, 
refreshing every eye with present beauty, and filling every heart with pro- 
mised benefits !— No wonder that she feared no famine in that spring tide 



®ff\er happiness — no wonder that the speech was rapture, and her step 
was buoyancy ! She was the darling of parent's hearts ; a kingdom was her 
dower~her very glance, like the sun of heaven, diffused light, and warmth, 
and luxury around it — in her public hour, fortune concentrated all its rays 
tipon her, and when she shrunk from its too radient noon, it was within 
the shelter of a husband's love, which God and nature, and duty and mo- 
rality, assured her unreluctant faith should be eternal. Such was she then, 
all joy and hope, and generous credulity, the credulity that springs from 
honour and from innocence. And who could blame it ? You had a world 
to choose, and she was your selection — your ages were compatible — your 
births were equal — you had drawn her from the house where she was 
honourable and happy — you had a prodigal allowance showered on you 
by the people— you had bowed your anointed head before the altar; and 
sworn by its majesty to cherish and protect her, and this you did in the 
presence of that moral nation from whom you hold the crown, and in the 
face of that church of which you are the guardian. The ties which bound 
you Were of no ordinary texture — you stood not in the situation of some 
secluded profligate, whose brutal satiety might leave its victim to a death 
of solitude, where tio eye could see, nor echo tell the quiverings of her 
agony. Your elevation was too luminous and too lofty to be overlooked, 
and she, who confided with a vestal's faith and a virgin's purity in your 
honour and your morals, had a corroborative pledge in that publicity, 
which could not leave her to suffer or be sinned against in secret. All the 
calculations of her reason, all evidence of her experience, combined their 
confirmation. Her own parental home was purity itself, and yours might 
have bound republicans to royalty ; it would have been little less than 
treason to have doubted you ; and, oh ! she was right to brush away the 
painted vermin that infest a court, who would have withered up her youth- 
ful heart with the wild errors of your ripe minority ! Oh, she was right to 
trust the honour of "Fair England's" heir, and weigh but as a breath- 
blown grain of dust, a thousand follies and a thousand faults balanced 
against the conscience of her husband. She did confide, and what has 
been the consequence ? 

History must record it, Sire, when the brightest gem in your diadem 
shall have mouldered, that this young, confiding, inexperienced creature 
had scarcely heard the last congratulatory address upon her marriage, when 
she was exiled from her husband's bed, banished from her husband's soci- 
ety, and abandoned to the pollution of every slanderous sycophant who 
chose to crawl over the ruin ? Merciful God ! was it mete to leave a hu- 
man being so situated, with all her passions excited and inflamed to the 
impulses of such abandonment ? Was it meet thus to subject her inexpe- 
rienced youth to the scorpion sting of exasperated pride, and all its inci- 
dental natural temptations ? Was it right to fling the shadow of a hus- 
band's frown upon the then unsullied snow of her reputation ? Up to the 
blight of that all-withering hour no human tongue dared to asperse her 
character. The sun of patronage was not then strong enough to 
quicken into life the serpent brood of slanderers : no starveling aliens, no 
hungry tribe of local expectants, then hoped to fatten upon the offals of 
the royal reputation. She was not long enough in widowhood, to give the 
spy and the perjurer even a colour for their inventions. The peculiari- 
ties of the foreigner, the weakness of the female — the natural vivacity of 
youthful innocence, could not then be tortured into "demonstrations 
«trong ;" for you, yourself, in your recorded letter, had left her purity not 
only unimpeached, but unsuspected. That invaluable letter, the Uving 
document of your separation, gives us the sole reason for your exile, thai 
your " inclinations," were not in your power ! That, Sire, and that alone 4 , 
was the terrific rwason which you gave your consort for thi** heart-rending- 



78 

degradation. Perhaps they were notj; but give me leavejto ask, are not 
the obligations of religion independent of us ? Has aRy man a rightTo square 
the solemnities of marriage according to his rude caprices ? Am T '.our 
lowly subject, to understand that I may kneel before the throne of God, 
and promise conjugal fidelity till death, and self-absolve myself, whatever 
moment it suits my "inclination?" Not so will that mitred bench, who see 
her majesty arraigned before them read to you this ceremony. They will 
tell you it is the most solemn ordinance of man- -consecrated by the ap- 
proving presence of our Saviour— acknowledged by the whole civilized 
community — the source of life's purest pleasures, and of death's happiest 
consolations — the rich fountain of our life and being, whose draught not 
only purifies existence, but causes man to live in his posterity ;-they will tell 
you that it cannot perish by "inclination,'* but by crime, and that if there is 
any difference between the prince and the peasant who invoke its obliga- 
tion, it is the more enlarged duty entailed upon him, to whom the Al- 
mighty has vouchsafed the influence of an example. 

Thus, then, within one year after her marriage, was she flung "like a 
loathsome weed," upon the world, no cause assigned except your loathing 
inclination ! It mattered nothing, that for you she had surrendered all her 
worldly prospects — that she had left her home, her parents and her coun- 
try — that she had confided in the honour of a prince, and the heart of a 
man, and the faith of a Christian ; she had, it seems, in one little year, 
" outlived your liking," and the poor, abandoned, branded, heart-rent 
outcast, must bear it all in silence, for — she v>as a defenceless woman, and 
a stranger. Let any man of ordinary feeling think on her situation at this 
trying crisis, and say he does not feel his heart's* blood boil within him ! 
Poor unfortunate ! who could have envied her her salaried shame, and her 
royal humiliation ? The lowest peasant in her reversionary realm was hap- 
py in the comparison. The parents that loved her were far, far away— 
the friends of her youth were in another land — she was alone, and he who 
should have rushed between her and the bolt of heaven, left her exposed 
to a rude world's caprices. And yet she lived, and lived without a mur- 
mur; her tears were silent — her sighs were lonely; and when you, per- 
haps, in the rich blaze of earth's magnificence, forgot that such a wretch 
existed, no reproach of her's awoke your slumbering memory. Perhaps 
she cherished the visionary hope that the babe whose "perilous infancy" 
she cradled, might one day be her hapless mother's advocate ' How fond- 
ly did she trace each faint resemblance ! Each little casual paternal smile, 
which played upon the features of that child, and might some distant day 
he her redemption! How, as it lisped the sacred name of father, did she 
hope its innocent infant tone might yet awake within that father's breast 
some fond association ! Oh, sacred fancies! Oh, sweet and solemn visions 
of a mother— who but must hallow thee ! Blest be the day-dream that be- 
guiles her heart, and robes each cloud that hovers o'er her child in airy 
eolours of that heart's creation ! Too soon life's wintry whirlwind must 
come to sweep the prismed vapour into nothing. 

Thus, Sire, for many and many a heavy year did your deserted Queen 
beguile her solitude. Meanwhile for you a flattering world assumed its 
harlot smiles — the ready lie denied your errors — the villain courtier deifi- 
ed each act, which in an humble man was merely duty, and mid the din 
of pomp and mirth, and revelry, if remorse spoke, 'twas inatticulate. Be- 
lieve me Sire, when all the tongues that flattered you are mute, and all 
the gaudy pageants that deceived you are not even a shadow, an awful 
voice will ask in thunder, did your poor wife deserve this treatment, mere- 
ly from some distate of "inclination ?" It must be answered. Did not the 
altar's vow demand a strict fidelity, and was it not a solemn and a sworn 
duty, " for better and for worse," to watch and tend her — correct her 



79 



waywardness by gentle chiding, and fling the fondness of an hussband's 
love between her errors and the world ? It must be answered, where the 
poorest rag upon the poorest beggar in your realm, shall have the splen- 
dour of a corronation garment. 

Sad, alas ! were these sorrows of her solitude — but sad as they were, 
they were but in their infancy. The first blow passed— a second and se- 
verer followed. The darling child, over whose couch she shed her 
silent tear — upon whose head she poured her daily benediction — in whose 
infant smile she lived, and moved, and had her being, was torn away, and 
in the mother's sweet endearments she could no longer lose the miseries 
of the wife. Her father, and her laurelled brother too, upon the field of 
battle, sealed a life of glory, happy in a soldier's death, far happier that 
this dreadful day was spared them ! Her sole surviving parent followed 
soon, and though they left her almost alone on earth, yet Low could she 
regret them ? she has at least the bitter consolation, that their poor child's 
miseries did not break their hearts. Oh, miserable woman ! made to re- 
joice Over the very grave of her kindred, in mournful gratitude that their 
hearts are marble. 

During a Jong probation of exile and wo, bereft of parents, country, 
child and husband, she had one solace still — her character was unblemish- 
ed By a refinement upon cruelty, even that consolation was denied her. 
Twice had she to undergo the inquisition of a secret trial, originating in 
foul conspiracy, and ending in complete acquittal. The charity of her 
nature was made the source of crime — the peculiarities inseperable from 
her birth were made the ground of accusation — her very servants were 
questioned whether every thought, and word, and look, and gesture, and 
visit, were not so many overt acts of adultery ; and when her most sacred 
moments had been heartlessly explored, the tardy verdict which freed her 
from the guilt, could not absolve her from the humiliating consciousness 
of the accusation. Your gracious father, indeed, with a benevolence of 
heart more royal than his royalty, interposed his arm between innocence 
and punishment ; for punishment it was, most deep and grievous, to meet 
discountenance from all your family, and see the fame which had defied 
all proof made the capricious sport of hint and insinuation, while that fa- 
ther lived she still had some protection, even in his night of life there was 
a sanctity about him v/hich awed the daring of the highway slanderer — his 
honest, open, genuine English look, would have silenced whole banditti of 
Italians. Your father acted upon the principles he professed. He was 
not more reverenced as a king than he was beloved and respected as a 
man ; and no doubt he felt how poignant it must have been to be denoun- 
ced as a criminal without crime, and treated as a widow in her husband's 
life-time. But death was busy with her best protectors, and the venera- 
ble form is lifeless now, which would have shielded, a daughter and a 
Brunswick. He would have warned the Milan panders to beware the 
honour of his ancient house ; he would have told them that a prying pet- 
tifogging, purchased inquisition upon the unconscious privacy of a royal 
female, was not in the spirit of the English character; he would have dis- 
dained the petty larceny of any diplomatic pickpocket ; and he would have 
told the whole rabble of Italian informers and swindling ambassadors, that 
his daughter's existence should not become a perpetual proscription ; that 
she was doubly allied to him by birth and marriage ; and that those who 
exacted all a wife's obedience, should have previously procured for her 
hushand's countenance. God reward him ! There is not a father or an 
husband in the land, whose heart does not at this moment make a pilgrim- 
age to his monument. 

Thus having escaped from two conspiracies equally affecting her honor 
and life, finding all conciliation hopeless, bereft by death of every natural 



80 

protector, and fearing perhaps that practice might make perjury cmtisient, , 
she reluctantly determined on leaving England. One pang alone embit- 
tered her departure — her darling, and in despite of all discountenance, her 
duteous child, clung round her heart with natural tenacity. Parents who 
love, and feel that very love compelling separation, can only feel for her- 
Yet how could she subject that devoted child to the humiliation of her mo- 
ther's misery ! How reduce her to the sad alternative of selecting between 
separated parents! She chose the generous, the noble sacrifice— self- 
bamshed, the world was before her— one grateful sigh for England — one 
tear. — the last, last tear upon her daughter's head — and she departed. 

Oh Sire, imagine her at that depauure! How changed ! how fallen, since 
a few short years before, she touched the shores of England ! The day- 
beam fell not on a happier creature — creation caught new colours from 
her presence, joy sounded its timbrel as she passed, and the flowers of 
birth, of beauty, and of chivalry, bowed down before her. But now, alone, 
an orphan and a widow ! her gallant brother in his shroud of glory ; no 
arm to shield, no tongue to advocate, no friend to follow an o'er-clouded 
fortune; branded, degraded, desolate, she flung herself once more upon the 
wave to her less fickle than a husbands promises' I do not wonder that she 
has now to pass through a severer ordeal, because impunity gives persecu- 
tion confidence But 1 marvel indeed much, that then, after the agony of 
an ex parte trial, and the triumph of a complete though lingering excul- 
pation, the natural spirit of English justice did not stand embodied be- 
tween her and the shore, and bear her indignant to your capital. The 
people, the peerage, the prelacy, should have sprung into unanimous pro- 
cession ; all that was noble or powerful, or consecrated in the land, should 
have borne her to the palace gate, and demanded why their queen present- 
ed to their eye this gross anomaly \ Why her anointed brow should bow 
down in the dust, when a British verdict had pronounced her innocence ! 
Why she was refused that conjugal restitution, which her humblest sub- 
ject had a right to claim ! Why the annals of their time should be disgra- 
ced, and the morals of their nation endure the taint of this terrific prece- 
dent ; and why it was that after their countless sacrifice* for your royal 
house, they should be cursed with this pageantry of royal humiliation ; 
Had they so acted the dire affliction of this day might have been spared 
us. We should not have seen the filthy sewers of Italy disgorge a living 
leprosy upon our throne; and slaves and spies, imported from acreedless 
brothel, land to attaint the sacred Majesty of England ! But who, alas ! 
will succour the unfortunate ? The cloud of your displeasure was upon her, 
and the gay, glittering, countless insect swarm of summer friends, abide 
but in the sun-beam ! She passed away — with sympathy I doubt not, but 
in silence. 

Who could have thought, that in a foreign land, the restless fiend of 
persecution would have haunted her ? Who could have thought, that in 
those distant climes, where her distracted brain had sought oblivion, the 
demoniac malice of her enemies would have followed ? who could have 
thought that any human form which had an heart, would have skulked 
after the mourner in her wanderings, to note and con every unconscious 
gesture? who could have thought, that such a man there was, who had 
drank at the pure fountain of our British law! who had seen eternal jus- 
tice in her sanctuary ! who had invoked the shades of Holt and Hard- 
wicke, and held high converse with those mighty spirits, whom mercy 
hailed in heaven as her representatives on earth ! 

Yet such a man there was ; who, on the classic shores of Como, even in 
the land of the illustrious Roman, where every stone entombed an hero, and 
every scene was redolent of genius, forgot his name, his country, and his 
tailing, to hoard such coinabie and rabble slander! oh, sacred shade 



81 

of our departed sages ! avert your eyes from this unhallowed spectacle; 
the spotless ermine is unsullied still; the ark yet stands untainted in 
the temple, and should unconsecrated hands assail it, there is a light- 
ning still, which would not slumber ! No, no ; the judgment seat of 
British law is to be soared, not crawled to; it must be sought upon an 
egle's pinion and gazed at by an eagle's eye ; there is a radiant purity around 
it, to blast the glance of grovelling speculation. His labour wad in vain, 
Sire, the people of England w.u not listen to Italian witnesses, nor ought 
they. Our queen, has been, before -his, twice assailed, and assailed on the 
same charges. Adultery, nay, pregnancy, was positively sworn to, one of the 
ornaments of our navy captain Manby, and one of the most glorious he- 
roes who ever gave a nation immortality, a spirit of Marathon or old Ther- 
mopylae he who planted England's red cross on the walls of Acre, and 
showed Napoleon, it was invincible, were the branded traitors to their 
sovereign's bed ! Englishmen, and, greater scandal, English -women, per- 
sons of rank, and birth, and education, were found to depose to this infer- 
nal charge ! the royal mandate issued for inquiry ; Lord Erskine, Lord El- 
lenborough, a man who had dandled accusations from his infancy, sat on 
the commission, and what was the resuU ? They found a verdict of perju- 
ry against her base accusers / The very child for whose parentage she 
might have shed her sacred blood, was proved bi-youd all possible denial, 
to have been but the adoption of her charity. — '* We are happy to declare 
to your majesty our perfect conviction, that there is no foundation what- 
ever for believing, (1 quote the very words of the commissioners,) that the 
ehild now with the princess, is the child of her royal highness, or that she 
was delivered of any child in the year 1802 ; nor has any thing appeared 
to us, which would warrant the belief that she was pregnant in the year, or 
at any other period -within the compass of our inquiries?' Yet people of 
rank, and station, moving in the highest society in England, admitted 
even to the sovereign's courc, actually volunteered their sworn at- 
testation of this falshood! Twenty years have rolled over her since, and r 
yet the same foul charge of adultery, sustained not as before by the plau- 
sible fabrications of Englishmen, but bolstered by the habitual inventions 
of Italians, is sought to be affixs-d to the evening of her life, in the face of a 
generous and a loyal people! A kind of sacramental shipload — a packed 
and assorted cargo of human affidavits has been consigned, it seems, from 
Italy to Westminster; thirty- thousand pounds of the people's money paid 
the pedlar who selected the articles ; and with this infected freight, which 
should have performed quarantine before it vomited its moral pestilence 
amongst us, the queen of England is sought to be attainted! It cannot be, 
Sire; we have given much, very much indeed, to foreigners, but we will 
not concede to them the hard-earned principles of British justice. It is 
not to be endured, that two acquittals should be followed by a third expe- 
riment; that when the English testament has failed, an Italian missal's 
kiss shall be resorted to; that when people of character here have beea 
discredited, others should be recruited who have no character any where ; 
but above alP> it is intolerable, that a defenceless woman should pass her life 
in endless persecution, with one trial in swift succession following another, 
in the hope perhaps, that her noble heart which has defied all proof should 
perish in the torture of eternal accusation. Send back, then, to Italy, those 
alien adventurers; the land of their birth, and the habits of their lives, 
alike unfit for an English court of justice. There is no spark of freedom 
—no grace of religion — no sense of morals in their degenerate soil. Effe- 
minate in manners; sensual from their cradles ; crafty, venal, and officious; 
naturalized to crime ; outcasts of credulity ; they have seen from their 
infancy their court a bag nib, their very churches scenes of daily assass.na- 
tion '. their faith is form ; their marriage ceremony a mere mask for the 

11 



82 

&<9St incestuous intercourses; gold is the god before which they prostrate 
every impulse of their nature. " \ euri sacra fames' quid non mnrtalia 
pectora cogis!" the once indignant exclamation of their antiquity, has 
become the maxim of their modem practice. 

No nice extreme a true Italian knows : 
But, bid him go to hell — to hell he goes. 

Away with them any where f-om us ; they cannot live in England : they 
will die in the purity of its mo-al atmosphere 

Meanwhile during this accuvsr-d scrutiny, even while the legal b'ood- 
hounds were on the scent 'helast dear stay which bound her to the world 
parted, the princess Charlotte died.' I will not harrow up a father's feel- 
ings, bv dwelling on this dr- adfil r^co'lect on. The p<"*et savs, that even 
grief finds comfort in society, and England went with you. But, "lv G' x d ! 
what must have be^n that hapless mother's misery when first the d'smal ti- 
din-s came upon bet? The darling: child o\>r whose cradle she had shed so 
many tea^s— whose lightest look was Measured in her memory — wjio, **n.id 
the world's frown, still smiled upon her — the fair and lovely flower, which, 
when her orb was quenched in tears lost not its filial, its divine fid- I tv ! 
It was blighted in its blo«=<om- its verdmt stem was withered, and m a 
foreign land she heard it, and alone — no, no. not quite alo'-e. The myr- 
midons of British hate were around her. and when her heart's sah tears 
were blinding h»r a German robleman wa- plundering her letters B think 
you, Sire, if that fair paragon of daughters lived, would England's heart 
be wrung with this inquiry ? Oh ! she would have torn the diamonds f om 
her brow, and dash' d r;ch royai mockery to the earth, and rushed before 
the people, not in a morarch's, but in nature's majesty — a child appealing 
for h'-r persecuted mother! and God would bless the sight, and man 
would hallow it, and every little infant in the lard who felt a mother's 
•warm tear upon her cheek, would turn by ins'inct to that sacred sum- 
mons Yo<>r daughter in her shroud, is yet alive; § we — her spirit is amongst 
us — it rose untomb^d when her poor mother landed — it walks amid the 
people— it has left the angels to protect the parent. 

The theme is sacred, and T will not sully it — I will not recapitulate 
the srriefs, and, worse than griefs, the little, pitiful, deliberate insults 
which are burning on every tongue in England. Every hope b'igbted — 
every friend discountenanced — her kindred in their grave — her declared 
innocence made but the herald to a more cruel accusation- -her two trials 
followed hy a third, a third on the same charges — her royal character in- 
sinuated away by German picklocks and Italian conspirator? — her divorce 
sought by an extraordinary procedure, upon grounds untenable before 
any usual lav or ecclesiastical tribunal — her name meanly erased from the 
Liturgy— her natural tights ss a mother disregarded, and her civil right 
as a queen sought to be exterminated ! and all this— all, because she dared 
fc> touch the sacred s il of liberty ! because she did not banish herself, an 
implied adultress ! because she would not be bribed into an jjfrandonment 
of herself and of the country over which she has been called to reign, and 
to which her h^art is bound hy the most tender ties, and the most indelible 
obligations. Yes. she might have lived wherever she selected, in all the 
magnificence which boundless bribery could procure for her, offered her 
by those who affjcf such tenderness'foryoui royal character, and such de- 
votion to the honour of her royal bed. If they thought her guilty, as 
they allege, this daring offer was a double treason — treason to your ma- 
jesty, whose honour they compromised — treason to the people, whose 
money they thus prostituted. But she spurned the infamous temptation, 
and she was right She was right to front her insatiable accusers ; eve* 



83 

were she guilty, never was there vietim with such crying palliations; but 
all innocent, as in my consqiei ce 1 believr her to be, not perhaps o the 
levities contingent on he;- birth, and which shall not be converted into con- 
structive crime, but of the cruel charge of adult ry, now for a third- time 
produced against her. She was; right, bereft of the court, which was her 
natural residence, and all buoyant with innocence as she felt, bravely to 
fling herself upon the wave of the people — that people will protect her — 
Britain's red cross is her 'flag, and Brunswick's spirit is her pilot. May 
the Almighty semi her royal vessel triumphant into harbour ! 

Sire, T am almost done, 1 have touched but slightly on your queen's mis- 
fortunes — 1 have contracted the volume of her injuries to a single page, 
and if upon that page one word offr-nd you, impute it to my zeal, not my 
intention. Accustomed all my life to speak the simple truth, 1 offer it 
with fearless honesty to my sovereign. You are in a difficult — it may be 
in a most perilious emergency. Banish from your court the sycophants 
who abuse you ; surround your palace with approving multitudes, not with 
armed mercenaries. Other crowns may be bestowed by despots and en- 
trenched by cannon ; but 

The throne we honour is the people's choice. 

Its safest bulwark is the popular heart, and its brightest ornament do- 
mestic virtue. Forget not also, there is a throne which is above even the 
throne of England— where flatterers cannot come — where kings are seep- 
treless. The vows you made are written in language b^gher than the 
sun, and in the course of nature, you must soon confront them ; prepare 
the way by effacing now, each seeming, slight and fancied injury, and 
when you answer the last awful trumpet, be your answer this, ** GOD I 
FORGAVE— I HOPE TO BE FORGIVEN ." 

But, if against all policy, and all humanity, and all religion, you should 
hearken to the counsels which further countenance this unmanly persecu- 
tion, then must 1 appeal not o you but to your parliament. 1 appeal to vhe 
sacred prelacy of England, whether the holy vows which their high church 
administered, have been kept towards this illustrious lady — whether the 
hand of man should have erased her from that page, with which it is 
worse than blasphemy in man to interfere — whether, as Heaven's vicege- 
rents, they will not abjure the sordid passions of the earth, imitate the in- 
spired humani'y of their Saviour %. and like Him, protect a persecuted 
creature from the insatiate fangs of ruthless, bloody, and untiring accu- 
sation ! ^ 

I appeal to the hereditary peerage of the realm, whether they will aid 
this levelling denunciation -of their queen — whether they will exhibit the 
unseemly spectacle of illustrious rank and royal lineage degraded for the 
crime of claiming its inheritance — whether they will hold a sort of civil 
crimination, where the accused is entitled to the mercy of an impeachments 
or whether they wid say with their immortal ancestors — "We will not 
tamper with the laws of England !" 

I appeal to the ermined independent judges, whether life is to be made 
a perpetual indictment — whether wo acquittals should not discountenance 
a third experiment — whether it any subject suitor came to their tribunal 
thus circumstanced, claiming either divot ce or compensation, they would 
grant his suit ; and I invoke from them, by the eternal majesty of Bri- 
tish justice, the same measure for she p<rasan ; and the prince ! 

I appeal to the Commons in Parliament assembled, representing the fa» 
thers and the husbands of the nation— 1 beseech vhem by the- outraged 
morals of the land! By the overshadowed dignity of the throne ! by the 
holiest and tenderest forms of religion ! by the honour of tae army, the 



84 

sanctity of the church, the safety of the state, and character of the 
country ' by -he solemn virtues which consecrate their hearths ' by those 
fond endearments of nature and of habit which attach them to their 
cherished wives and families, I implore their tears, their protection, and 
their pity upon the married widow and the childless mother ! 

To those high powers and authorities T appeal with the firmest con- 
fidence in their honour, their integrity, and their wisdom. May their 
conduct justify my faith, and raise no blush on the cheek of our pos- 
terity ! 

I have the honour to subscribe myself, 
Sire, 
Your Majesty's most faithful subject, 

CHARLES PHILLIPS. 



Othello's Apology* 

MOST potent, grave and reverend Seigniors^ 
My very noble and approved good masters, 
That I have ta en away this old man's daughter, 
It is most true; true, I have married her; 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech* 
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace; 
For since these arms of mine had seven years pith, 
'Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us'd 
Their dearest action in the tented field J 
And little of this great world can I speak 
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle; 
And therefore little shall I grace my cause, 
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patieace, 
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver, 
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms, 
What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 
(For such proceeding I am charg'd withal) 
I won his daughter with 

Her father lov'd me, oft invited me ; 
Still question'd me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes^ 
Tha I have past. 

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, 
To th' very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, 
Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach.; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery : of my redemption thence* 
And with it all my travel's history: 
Wherein of antres vastj and deserts idle> 



85 



Rough quarries, rocks, and hills, whose heads touch heaV'n, 

It was my bent to speak — All these to hear 

Would esdemona seriously incline, 

But still the house-attairs would draw her hence, 

Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 

Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 

Took once a pliant hour, and found good means', 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 

That 1 would all my pilgrimag dilate; 

Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 

But not distinctively. did consent, ( 

And often did beguile her of her tears. 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke 

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs, 

She swore in fait.,, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 

'Twas pittiful, 'twas wond'rous pitiful 

She wish'd she had not heard it yet she wish'd 

That heav'n had made her such a man \ — She thank'd me, 

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; 

She lov'd me for the dangers 1 had past ; 

And i ov'd her that she did pity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have us'd. 

SHAKSPEA8$> 



Brutus and Cassim. 

Can. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus^ 
As well as I do know your outward favour. 
Well, honour is the subject of my story. — *ir^% 
I cannot tell what you an other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single selfj 
I had as lief not >-e, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you ; 
We both have fed as well ; and we can botft 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once upon a raw and gusty day 
The troubled Tyber chasing with his shores, 
Caesar says to me, dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point ? — Upon the word. 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow ; so, indeed, he did, 



86 



The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews; throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But ere we could arrive the point propos'd, 

Caesar cry'd, help me Cassius, or I sink. 

I, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear; so from the waves of Tyber 

Did I the tired Csesar: and this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body, 

If cesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 

And when he fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake ; 

His coward lips did from their colour fly, 

And that same eye, whose bend does awe the world, 

Did lose its lustre ; I did hear him groan : 

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, 

Alas! it cry'd — Give me some drink, Titinius — 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone. 

Bru. Another general shout ! 
I do believe, that these applauses are 
For some new honours that are henp'd on Caesar. 

Cas. Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world 
Like a Colossus I 'and we petty men 
W T alk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonourable graves. 
Men at sometimes are masters of their fates; 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus — and Csesar — what should be in that Caesar: 
Why should that name be sounded, more than yours ? 
Write them together; your's is as fair a name: 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em, 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon Caesar. 
Now, in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meats does this our Casar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd, 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, • 
But it was fam'd with more than with m;e man ? 
When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome, 



m 



That her wide walls encompass'd but one man I 
Oh 1 you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus, one that would have brook'd 
The eternal devil, to keep his state in Rome 
As easily as a king. 

SHAKSPEAREi 



On Education. — by thk rev. br. mason, President 
of Dickinson College. 

The revival of a decayed institution, being much more difficult than the 
establishment of a new one, as the resurrection of a dead body is more 
arduous, and certainly more uncommon, than the production of a living onei 
and as all the success, humanly speaking wili depend upon the plan to be 
pursued, it naay be due >o the occasion to say a few words on a subject, 
on which every body talks confidently, and few think correctly, while the 
million prate without thinking at all — the subject of education". 

Education, if I mistake not, contemplates three objects, tue evolution of 
faculty, 'he formation of habits, and the cultivation of manners- 

I. The evolution of faculty — This, of course, implies, that there is facul- 
ty to be evolved. So, that iike ai: created power, education must have its 
materials from the hand of the Creator. Itself creates nothing. It only 
bring > out qualities which pre-existed. It is a manufacture, and like all 
other manufactures must have the raw material to work upon, or it can do 
•nothing. Many well meaning people imagine that it is in the power of 
teachers to do every thing : and hard measure do they give them for not 
working miracles — for not converting a booby into a lad of genius, jjjfy 
friends, you must not expect thai we shall do what the_Almighty God has 
noi done. That we shall furnish brains where our pupils naturally are 
without them I know no more thankless and desperate experiment, than 
an attempt to educate the naturally stupid. It may well enough consort 
with the vocation of a pedant, who provided he has a head to hammer upon, 
is well enough satisfied ; but it is grief, and misery, and purgatory, to a man 
of any sense or feeling. Persons, with uncouth and rugged minds, would 
be employed far better in following the plough, drawn by their more intel- 
ligent horses, than in making themselves ridiculous by endeavouring to 
obtain a liberal education. At the same time it must be acknowledged that 
tlie seeds of natural ability are pretty equally distributed : and that fine 
minds are often lost for want of culture. 

" Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
" The dark unfathora'd, cav^s of ocean bear; 
" Full many a Bower is b:u n to blush^unseen, 
" And waste it s sweetness on the desert air." 

Yes, among these lads who know no other use for their limbs, than fel- 
ling the forests; and no other for their activity of mind and body, than 
catching the wild turkey, the pheasant, or the deer, there are some master 
Spirits who need nothing but cultivation to bring them forth into their pe- 
cullar action ; who contain the rudiments of the statesman's skill, and the 
patent's fire, and may, according to their places, become the Washington* 
the Hamiltons, and the FrankUn's of future days. There are, among these 
simple rustics, men who in former ages would have 



88 

« Wielded at will the fierce democracy, 
" And fulmin'd over Greece to Macedon 
" And Artaxerxes' Throne.'* 

O, could we but light upon these chosen spirits, these minds which can 
balance themselves and millions of other men! Could Dickinson present 
among her sons, an array hostile, terrible, destructive, to all the legions of 
infidelity and misrule, she might well hold up her head amid the semina- 
ries of the nation, and receive their homage, not less freely granted than 
richlv merited. 

On subordination to authority I regret to say that in all the departments of 
society, from the parental controul to that of the government, this is held 
by our )outh in too little esteem. Their ambition, very early evinced, is to 
be manly and to be free. They are, therefore, prone to spurn restraint 
and to take their own way : esteemed that to be a noble spirit which ac- 
knowledges no superior; and that to be true liberty which follows its own. 
pleasure. That the prevalence of such a temper should produce wide 
spreading mischief, is manifest to every sound thinker ; and often to the 
youth themselves, when it is too late to undo the consequences In the 
mean time it militates alike against the very constitution of ourvoature — 
against the most express commandments of God — and against those princi- 
ples of action which, at all limes and in every place, but from peculiar 
causes, in the present day and in our own country, are necessary to the 
order of society and the happiness of individuals. 

It militates against the very constitution of our nature. It is not for no- 
thing; it is for benign and wise purposes, that our Creator has deter- 
mined we should come into the world utterly feeble and helpless. The 
firs 1 friend whom the infant recognizes, is his mother. To her tenderness, 
her watchfulness, her patience, he probably owes more than to the kind- 
ness of any of his species. Under her gentle auspices the first buddings of 
his rational nature begin to unfold. To her is allotted the delightful pro- 
vince of teaching " the young idea how to shoot,*' of moulding the heart — 
of cherishing all its amiable and generous affections — of storing it with the 
« swe^t charities" of life — of leading it in filial piety, to God the sovereign 
good Tn<- rudiments of many a character distinguished for virtues hon- 
our d both on earth and in heaven, can be traced to the nursery and the 
lap. O most charming employment ! rich compensation for the seclusion, 
the anxieties, the pains, :o which the sex is destined ! O most refreshing 
abatement of the sorrows of that cup which has been assigned to woman 
for her priority in transgression ! 

Then comes the father, appointed by the divine mandate to be the head 
of the domestic establishment. His family is his kingdom; his children 
are his subjects; and he is the governour in his own house. These young 
subjects are submitted to his rule: he knows best, at least better than they, 
what is for their good. His authority is to be their reason for many, for 
most things, while they are quite young. And should they prove refrac- 
tory, his superior physical force can, and should, constrain their submis- 
sion. If therefore, both parents perform their duty, their children, not- 
withstanding the dreadful drawback of human depravity, will generally 
grow up trained to obedience. Their habits will be incorporated into 
their character. They cannot become rude and disorderly without violating 
all sense of decorum and gratitude ; and breaking through, besides, 
all their early habits. The common sense of mankind is in accordance with 
all this. A rough, surly, ungovernable, boy, there is nothing more com- 
mon than to call an unnatural child. Thus are children, by the very condi- 
tion of their being, made fit subjects for order which "is Heaven* s first 
law/' And he who requites his parents care, by vicious courses, by giving 




m 

iumsetf up to the service of iniquity, which is the essential disorder though 
he should be one of the " fairest spirits," that ever "lost heaven" and 
should be plausible and seducing as Belial himself, deserves no other ap- 
pellation than that of a mo?isler. 

I have said that education includes the cultivation of manners. I 
mean by manners all those lighter things in conduct, which though they 
do not occupy the rank of morals, do yet belong to the embellishments 
and ornaments of life. 

1 hardly know how it has happened, that a " scholar,*' is become a com- 
mon term for every thing unpolished and uncouth. Some men, indeed, by 
the greatness of their genius, and the immensity of their erudition, have 
attained a sort of privileged exemption from the common courtesies of so- 
ciety. But the misery is that the same exemption is claimed by those who 
have only rudeness, which they mistake for genius; and disregard of civi- 
lity, which passes with them for erudition. Thus, if scholars are sometimes 
awkward and absent, every awkward, inattentive creature calls himself a 
scholar. Just as, to use a comparison of the late Mr. Gouverneur Morris, 
** because statesmen ^have been called knaves, every knave should, of 
course, suppose himself a statesman." Certain however, it is, that no 
young men have enjoyed the reputation of being ill-bred, unmannerly, and 
vulgar, more than Students of Colleges. How is this.' Is there any thing 
in the retreats of the muses to cherish ferocity ? Do men necessarily become 
brutes, when the' world gives them credit for becoming philosophers J 
Does the acquisition of science, especially moral science, involve the des- 
truction of decency ? So that after a young man has left college laden with 
all its honours, he has again to be put to school, in practical life, before he 
can be fit for the company of gentlemen and ladies ? 1 blush to think that 
the place, Which of all others, is supposed to teach a young man manners, 
is the army : That the kindness, the courtesy, the chivalry of life, should 
be associated with the trade of blood! That the pistol and the dagger, 
should be the measure of morals and of politeness, wish gentlemen : and 
that when they have trampled under their feet every law of God and man; 
and all that is dear to human happiness, and ought to be of high account 
in human society, is made the sport of momentary passion, they should 
still be allowed to pass for men of breeding', and honour/ "There is some- 
thing rotten in the state of Denmark V 

What then is the government which ought to be pursued, and will per- 
form such miracles among young men ? One which is very plain, very sim- 
ple, though unhappily not very common ; and one which will carry the 
process through from a family up to a nation. The whole secret consists 
in being reasonable, being^rm^ and being uniform. 

1. In being reasonable. Whatever you require, must be such as cannot 
fairly be objected to : such as belong to the situation, of your pupil, his 
duties, and his time of life. It is a very strong point gained to have his 
conscience on your side. You are not to demand what he is unable to per- 
form. And if such happen to be his situation, it must be altered accord- 
ingly. Great care must then be taken to see that your commands are rea- 
sonable; this matter being settled, I say : 

2. That a good government ought to be jinn. Intreaty and supplication 
ought to have no more influence upon its proceedings, than upon the 
bench of the Supreme court; and a youth should count no more upon its 
pliancy. I do not mean to assert, that a teacher or governour of youth 
should never acknowledge an errour ; or that he should obstinately adhere 
to a thing because he has said or ordered it. He is a miserable pauper whom, 
the loss of a six pence will bankrupt; and in intellectual matters he is no 
richer, who cannot afford to confess a mistake. He must not, indeed, do 
fehis often. But occasionally, as humanum est errare, he may by owmng 

1 ' !2 



90 

that he has been mistaken, doing it freely, doing it magnanimous!)', attach 
the affections of the youth very strongly to his person, and afflrjn his autho- 
rity by those very meaiib which would weaken it in an undecided and inca- 
pable man. 

3. 1 add, once more, that a government, to be good for any thing, must 
be uniform. By uniform. 1 mean that it shall be habitually the same thing ; 
that when you have its decisions at one tine, you know where to find 
them at another : that it shall not be ma. ked by whim : shall not be moved 
out of its course by gusts of passion : shall not, in a fit of great good hu- 
mour allow to-day what in a fit of ill-humour it will forbid to-morrow. Shall 
not, therefore, tease and vex 'he subjects of it by its tickleness, and varia- 
bleness. These should always know what they have to depend upon; and 
not see the elements of order disturbed and broken up, by the prevalence 
of official disorder. 

Against a government adminis'ered upon such principles, and marked 
in its several acts by courtesy, by kindness, by the frankness and dignity of 
gentlemen, I am persuaded that depravity herself could not muster up any 
thing like a formidable conspiracy. 

Such, gentlemen, we profess to be our aim ; and in the prosecution of 
such an aim we feel confident of your'support. Although we do not ex- 
pect to have much, if any, reason to applv for it. We do hope, that an ap- 
peal to the understanding, the magnanimity, the conscience, of the students, 
will effectually pivclude those scenes of misruit which have occasionally 
tarnished 'he history of other Colleges ; and that affection will do for us, 
whai the exercise of" mere authority has not been able to do for others, 
auach the students more and more to the interests of their Alma Mater. 



On the necessity of Learning in the Ministers of the 

Gospel. BY THE REV. P. LINDSLEY. 

But, brethern, allow me to appeal to facts. What says the history of 
the christian church ? Go to its commencement. Examine the qualifica- 
tions of its original founders. We have already hinted at their peculiar 
and distinguishing advantages and prerogatives: such as have never since 
been enjoyed or possessed; Who succeeded them ? Men of the greatest 
learning then in the world. Men of whom the world was unworthy. Men 
who could put all Grecian and all Roman science to the blush: — who could 
meet the aged philosopher end the wily sophist on their own ground:— 
Clemens, Ignatius, Polycarp, Justin, lrenseus, Tertuiiian, Origen, Cypi\an, 
Eusebius, Athanasius, Basil, Chrysostom, Lactantius, Ambrose, Jerome, 
Augustine, and a host of martyrs and fathers too numerous to mention. 

When learning declined, religion degenerated. When learning had van- 
ished, religion was nearly extinct. When letters revived, religion again 
flourished and assumed a purer form. 

Who were the first to discover, expose, refute, condemn, and demolish 
the papal errors and the papal tyranny ? Who, but the men of the largest 
minds and the greatest learning ? Need I name Wickliff, Huss, Jerome of 
Prague, Luther, Melanchthon,' Calvin, Latimer, Ridley, Cranmer, Knox, 
and a hundred others, as eminent for literature as religion ; for integrity 
and courage as for zeal and ardour in the cause of truth ; who nobly dared 
to stem the torren which had nearly deluged the christian world, and 
neaity buried in ruins the whole christian fabrick ? 

Shall I trace the progress of religion from hat bright epoch when the 
Sun of the Reformation first rose above the horizon and began to dispel the 



91 

darkness of a long dismal night which seemed to threaten an endless dura- 
tion, down to the present time ? What is the character of the men who have 
laboure I in the field and on the battle-ground with most efficiency and suc- 
cess ? Who have written books, and thundered in the pulpit, with argument 
and eloquence irresistible and overwhelming? Were they not the most 
acute, best disciplined, most profoundly erudite of the. ages in which they 
flourished r Shall I come nearer to your own times and to your own doors I 
Shall I invoke the spirits of a Hammond, an Owen, a Baxter, a Flavel, a 
StillingnVet, a Tiiiotson, an Eliot, a Swartz, a John, an Edwards, a Davies, 
a Whitefield, a Horsley, a Porteus, aBuchannan, a Witherspoon ? — but the 
catalogue would be endless. 

The history of Christianity is a triumphant refutation of the heresy and 
the slander that learning is unnecessary, or that it is unfriendly to genuine 
religion. It exhibits proof most positive that without learning nothing has 
been or could have been effected. That zeal without knowledge leads to 
fan dicism, to error, to superstition, to enthusiasm ;. — to abuses and heresies* 
the most absurd and abominable. 

On this topic 1 might indulge in a variety of illustration from facts. I 
could summon your attention to a thousand mournful evidences of the 
danger of suffering self-sufficient aspiring ignorance to obtrude itself int© 
the direction and government of the church. 

Commissioned by his divine Master to proclaim glad tidings of peace to 
the perishing: he labours to fulfil the object of his emoassy with a 
zeal, a patience, a perseverance, which no earthly considerations could 
inspire: and which no earthly discouragements or difficulties can damp 
or destroy. 

Is he an enthusiast; is he an impostor? There may be enthusiasts; 
there may be hypocrites; there may be wolves in sheep's clothing invested 
with this sacred character. But what then J* Does this fact afford any 
sound argument against the sincerity and good faith of the whole body of 
christian ministers ? What good thing is there in the universe which has 
Hot been abused and counterfeited ? What wise and benevolent institution 
has ever existed free from contamination and perversion? Strange, indeed, 
would it be, if religion: if the christian religion: and the ministers ot this 
religion, did not occasionally share the corruption, degeneracy, and abuse 
which are inseparable from all things here below. Tliere is no form of 
virtue, no disguise of religion which has not been assumed as a conve- 
nient mask for the worst of crimes. And this fact operates with no less 
force to the disadvantage of natural religion; of natural or political virtue; 
of human learning and wisdom ; and of every thing which the world calls 
great and good ; than it does to the disparagement of Christianity and its 
advocates. This species of argument therefore has no application to the 
case. Or, if it have, it would equally demolish the systems of the sage 
and the moralist: of the believer and the infidel. It would leave us nothing 
but one vast wild of hideous ruin and deformity of hopeless misery and 
wickedness. Beware then of this subtile, insinuating exterminating logick. 
It is unsound and illiberal. And none but the enemies of truth and piety 
can employ it 

Christianity is the only system of religion at present known in the world 
which can lay just claims to a heavenly origin. If it be true, its own infal- 
lible oracles declare the appointment, and the necessity of continuing for- 
ever a ministry in the church. And how can this ministry be perpetuated 
except by the regular education of a competent number of young men to 
supply the places of those vacated by age, infirmity, and death : and to 
meet the growing demands of an enlarged and daily increasing church? 
"What mode of education can be devised better adapted to meet these wants, 
than publick seminaries exclusively devoted to this object under the spe- 



92 

eial superintendance and control of the church itself? I propose this ques» 
tion with perfect confidence that a negative reply cannot be made to it ; and 
will not be made to it, by the wise, the judicious, and the pious. 

The exigency of the case suggests this as the only natural and efficient 
method of furnishing an adequate supply of faithful and enlightened pastors 
and missionaries for the vast evangeliz-ed and unevangelized reg ons of this 
almost boundless continent : whose population is annually augmenting in a 
ratio which confounds all computation: whose spiritual wants of course 
are multiplying with equal rapidity: and to a degree, which almost over- 
whelms with discouragement the pious philanthropist while contemplating 
this great moral wilderness which is scarcely illumined by a ray of gospel 
light. Surely it is time for the friends of religion and humanity to awake 
from their slumbers, and to put forth all their strength in one grand effort to 
meliorate the condition of the countless thousands of our own countrymen 
who are literally perishing for lack of knowledge : yes, at this moment des- 
titute of the ordinary means of grace ; — without bibles and without minis- 
ters. 

There is now a grand movement in the camp of Israel. Arise and come 
forth to the help of the Lord against the mighty. 

Behold the progress of heresy and infidelity under the disguise of ra- 
tional Christianity. See the artifice of the great destroyer in these latter 
days. He has commissioned his emissaries to assume the garb and the 
functions of he ministers of she gospel, hat they may he more effectually 
sap the foundation of the whole christian edifice. He has enlisted talents, 
and learning, and indefatigable enterprise in this work of desolation. He 
has taught the deistical scoffer at revelation to step a little aside from us 
accustomed track ; and to come forward in a new shape, but with the same 
malignant hostility against the truth. He is now willing to be esteemed a 
catholick liberal christian* But he rejects the essential divinity of the Sa- 
viour ; the depravity of human nature ; the doctrine of the atonement, 
an«l of justification by faith.— Or, he is a christian without holding one 
principle of the christian religion which can distinguish it from the reli- 
gion of nature. Modern unitarianism, which is every wh-re insinuating 
itself into the hearts of men naturally predisposed to its reception, because 
it is exactly suited to the natural character of men, is more to be dreaded 
than any species of infidelity ever yet avowed. It is a deadly enemy, wear- 
ing the mask and the name of a friend. 



oa 



The following Sermon, was delivered on a missionary oeca- 
sion, in Tottenham-Court-Chapel, London, by the Rev'd. 
J. M. Mason, D. D. late provost of Columbia College, but 
now President of Dickinson- College, Carlisle, (Venn.) It 
is with no ordinary emotions of pleasure that it is presented 
to the public in this compilation.— As all intelligent and 
correct reasoners will acknowledge, that it exhibits the 
"truth of God, and the way to eternal life;" and persons 
of refined taste will find it to be one of the most interesting, 
splendid, and highly finished productions of tfie present age. 
The Compiler will only add— -let students in divinity eclipse 
it if in their power, 

MESSIAH'S THRONE. 

Heb, i.— 8.— But unto the Son, he saith, Thy Throne, God, is for ever and ever, 

IN the all-important argument which occupies this epistle. Paul assumes, 
what the believing Hebrews had already professed, that Tesus of Nazareth 
is the true Messiah. To prepare them for the consequences of their own 
principle ; a principle involving nothing less than the abolition of their law, 
the subversion of their state, the ruin of their city, the final extinction of 
their carnal hopes, he leads them to the doctrine of their Redeemer's per- 
son in order to explain the nature of his offices, to evince the value of his 
spiritual salvation, and to show, in both, the accomplishment of their ceco- 
nomy which was * now ready to vanish away ' Under no apprehension of 
betraying the unwary into idolatrous homage, by giving to the Lord Jesus 
greater glory than is * due unto his name ;' the apostle sets out with as» 
cribing to him excellence and attributes which belong to no creature Crea- 
tures of most elevated rank are introduced ; but it is to display, by contrast, 
the pre-eminence of Him who is ' the brightness of the Father's glory, and 
the express image of his person.' Angels are great in might, and in dig- 
nity ; but ' unto them hath he not put in subjection the world to come.— 
Unto which of them said he at any time, Thou art my son ?' To which of 
them, ' Sit thou at my right hand V He saith, they are spirits, ' ministering 
spirits, sent forth to « minister unto them who are the Heirs of salvation.' 
But unto the SON, in a style which annihilates competition and comparison 
unto the SON he saith, thy throne, O God, is for ever and ever. 

Brethren, If the majesty of Jesus is the subject which the Holy Ghost se- 
lected for the encouragement and consolation of his people, when he was 
shaking the earth and the heavens, and diffusing his gospel among the na- 
tions ; can it be otherwise than suitable and precious to us on this occasion ? 
Shall it not expand our views, and warm our hearts, and nerve our arm, in 



9* 

our efforts to exalt his fame ? Let me implore then, the aid of your prayers; 
but far more importuna ely the aids of his own Spirit, while I speak of " the 
things which concern the king-:' those great things contained in the text — 
his personal glory— his sovereign rule — 

I. FLs personal glory shines forth in the name by which he is revealed; a 
name above every name, thy throne — () God ! 

To the single eye nothing can be more evident, in the 

First place, than that the Holy Ghost here asserts the essential deity of our 
Lord Jesus Christ. Of his ei emies, whom he will « make his footstool/ 
some have, indeed, controverted ihis position, and endeavoured to blot out 
the Uxt from the catalogue of his witnesses. Instead of ' thy throne, O God;* 
they would compel us by a perversion of phraseology, of figure, and of sense, 
to re d, ' God is thy throne ;' converting the great and dreadful God into a 
symbd of authority in one of his own creatures. The scriptures, it seems, 
may utter contradictions, or impiety, but the divinity of the Son they shall not 
attest The crown however, which * flourishes on his head,' is not to be 
torn away ; nor the arcbor of our hope to be wrested from us, by the rude 
hand of licentious criticism. 

£ cannot find, in the lively oracles, a single distinctive mark of deity which 
is not applied, without reserve or limitation, to the only begotten Son. ' All 
things whatsoever the Father hath, are Ins. 1 Who is that mysterious Word, 
that was, 'in the beginnmg^ with God?' Who is the * Alpha and Omega, the 
beginning and the ending, the first and the last, the Almighty?' Who is he 
that ' knows what is in man,' because he searches the deep and dark reces- 
ses of the heart? Who is the Omnipresent, that has promised * Wherever 
.two or three are gathered together in my name, there am J in the midst of 
them?' the light of whose countenance is, at the same momen , the joy of 
heaven, and the salvation of earth? who is incircled by the Seraphim on high, 
and 'walks in the midst of the golden candlesticks. 1- ' who is in this assem- 
bly; in all the assemblies of bis people? m every worshipping family? :n e very- 
closet of prayer' in ev=rv holy heart ? ' Whose hinds have stretched out the 
heavens and laid the foundations of the earth?' Who hath replenished them 
with inhabitants, and garnished them with beauty, having created ail things 
that are in both, 'visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or domini- 
ons, or principalities, or powers?' By whom do * ail things consist?' Who is 
* the governor among the nations, having on his vesture and on his thigh a 
name written « King of king^s and Lord of lords.' Whom is it the Father's 
will that 'all men should honour, even as they honour himself? Whom has 
he commanded his angels to worship? whom to obey? Before -whom do the 
devils tremble ? Who is qualified to redeem millions of sinners ' from the 
writh to come,' and preserve them, by his grace, to his everlasting kingdom? 
Who raiseth the dead, * having life in himself, to quicken whom he will/ so 
that at, his voice, * all who are in their graves shall come forth ;— and death 
and hell' surrender their numerous and forgotten captives? Wao shall weigh, 
in the balance of judgment, the destinies of angels and men? dispose of the 
thrones of paradise ? and bestow eternal life? Shall I submit to the decision 
of reason? Shall I ask a response from heaven? Shalt I summon the devils 
from their * chains of darkness?* The response from heaven sounds in my 
ea s; reason approves, and the devils confess*— Thi$, O Christians, is none 
other than the great God our Saviour ! 



95 

Indeed, my brethren, the doctrine of our Lord's divinity is not, as ajhe/^ 
more interesting- to ou»- faith, than, as a principle, it is essential to our hope. 
If he were not * the '.rue God,' he could not be 'eternal life.' When pres- 
sed down by guilt and Languishing for happiness, I look around for a deliver- 
er such as my conscience and my heart and the word of God assure me I 
need, insult not my agony, by directing me to a creatujpe — to a man, a mere 
man like myself! A creature ! a man ! My Redeemer owns my person My 
immortal spirit is his property, When I come to die, .1 must commit it into 
his hands. My soul! My infinitely precious soul committed to a mere man ! 
become the property of a mere man! I would not, thus, entrust my body, to 
the highest angel who burns in the temple above. It :s only the ' Father of 
spirits,' that can have property in spirits, and be their refuge in the hour of 
transition from the present to the approaching world. In short, my breth- 
ren, the divinity of Jesus, is, in the system of grace, the sun to which all its 
parts are subordinate, and all their stations refer — which binds them in sacred 
concord ; and imparts to them their radiance, and life, and vigour Take 
from it this central luminary, and the glory is departed- — Its holy harmonies 
are broken — The elements rush to chaos — The light of salvation is extin- 
guished for ever ! 

But it is not the deity of the Son, simply considered, to which the text 
confines our attention. We are in the 

S&cond place to contemplate it as subsisting in a personal union with the 
human nature. 

Long before this epis'le was written had he 'by himself purged our sins, 
and sat down at the right hand of the majesty on high.' It is, therefore, as 
'God manifested in the flesh ;' as my own brother, while he is 'the express 
image of the Father's person,' as the Mediator of the new covenant, that he 
is seated on the throne. Of this throne, to which the pretensions of a crea- 
ture were mad and blasphemous, the majesty is, indeed, maintained by his 
divine power ; but the foundation is laid in his Mediatorial character. I 
need not prove to this audience, that all his gracious offices and all his re- 
deeming work originated in the love and the election of his Father. Obedi- 
ent to that wilhwhich fully accorded wi'h his own,he came down from heaven; 
tabernacled in our clay ; was ' a man of sorrows and acquainted with griefs;' 
submitted to the f contradictions of sinners, the temptations of the old 
Serpent, and the wrath of an avenging God. In the merit of his obedience, 
which threw a lustre round the divine law; and in the atonement of his 
deaih by which ' he offered himself a sacrifice without spot unto God,' re- 
pairing the injuries of man's rebellion, expiating sin through the blood of his 
cross ; and conciliating its pardon with infinite purity, and unalterable truth ; 
summarily, in his performing those conditions on which was suspended all 
God's mercy to man, and all man's enjoyment of God, in these stupendous 
« works of righteousness' are we to look for the cause o* his present glory 
' He humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of 
the cross ; wherefore God also hath highly exalted him, and given him a 
name which is above every name ; that at the name of Jesus every knee 
should bow, of things in heaven and things in earth, and things under the 
earth ; and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the 
the glory of God Father.' 'Exalted,' thus, 'to be a Prince and a Saviour, 
he fills heaven with his beauty, and obtains from its blest inhabitants, the 



96 

purest and mjsst reverential praise, i Worthy,* cry the mingled voices ol 
his angels and his* redeemed, 'worthy is the Lamb thai was slain to receive 
power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and 
blessing ' ' Worthy,' again cry his redeemed, in a song which belongs not 
to the angels, but in which with holy ecstacy, we will join, * worthy art thou, 
for thou was slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy bloud ' 

Delightful, brethren, transcendently delightful were it to dwell upon this 
theme But we must refrain ; and having taken a transient glance at our 
Redeemer's personal glory, let us turn to the 

II view which the text exhibits — the view of his sovereign rzde Thy 

throxe. O God, is for ever and ever. 

The mediatorial kingdom of Christ Jesus, directed and upheld by his divi- 
nity, is now the object of our contemplation. To advance Jehovah's glory 
in the salvation of men, is t!<e purpose of its erection. Though earth is the 
scene and human life the limit, of those great operations by which they are 
interested in its mercies, and prepared for its consummation ; its principles, 
its provisions, its issues are eternal. When it rises up before us in all its 
grandeur of design, collecting and conducting to the heavens of God, mil- 
lions of immortals, in comparison with the least of whom the destruction of 
the material universe were a thing of nought, whatever the carnal mind calla 
vast and magnificent, shrinks away into nothing. 

But it is not so much the nature of Messiah's kingdom on which I am t<$ 
insist, as its stability, its administration) and the prospects which they open t» 
the church of God. 

Messiah's throne is not one of those airy fabrics which are reared by vanity 
and overthrown by Time : it is fixed of old: it is stable and cannot be shaken^ 
for, 

(1-) It is the throne of God. He who sitteth on it is the Omnipotent. Uni- 
versal being is in his hand. Revolution, force, fear, as applied to his king« 
dom, are words without meaning. Rise up in rebellion, if thou hast courage. 
Associate with thee the whole mass of infernal power. Begin with the ruin 
of whatever is fair and good in this little globe — Pass from hence to pluck 
the Sun out of his place— and roll the volume of desolation through the 
starry world— What hast thou done unto him ? It is the puny menace of a 
worm against Him whose frown is perdition. ' He that sitteth in the hea- 
vens shall laugh " 

(2-) With the stability which Messiah's Godhead Communicates to his 
throne, let us connect the stability resulting from his Father's covenant, 

His throne is founded not merely in strength, but in right. God hath laid 
the government upon the shoulder of his holy child Jesus, and set him upon 
mount Zion as his king for ever. He has promised, and sworn, to • build 
up his throne to all generations;' to * make it endure as the days of heaven;' 
to * beat down his foes before his face, and plague them that hate him. But 
my faithfulness,' adds he, * and my mercy shall be with him, and in my name 
shall his horn be exalted. Hath he said it? and will he not do it? Hath he 
spoken it, and shall it not come to pass?' Whatever disappointments rebuke- 
the visionary projects of men, or the more crafty schemes of Satan, • the 
counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.' The blood of sprinkling, which seal- 
ed all the promises made to Messiah, and binds down his Father's faithfulness 
to their accomplishment, witnesses continually ia the heavenly sanctuary.— 



97 

' rte must, 3 therefore, £ reign till he have put all his enemies under his feet.' 
And although the dispensation of his authority shall, upon this event, be 
changed; and he shall deliver it up, in its present form, to the Father, he 
shall still remain, in his substantial glory, * a priest upon his throne,' to be 
the eternal bond of our union, and the eternal medium of our fellowship, with 
the living God. 

Seeing that the throne of our King is as immovable as it is exalted, let us 
* with joy draw water out of that well of salvation* which is opened to us in the 

Administration of his kingdom. Here we must consider its general charac- 
ters, and the means by which it operates. 

The general characters which I shall illustrate, are the following. 

(1.) Mystery — He is the unsearchable God, and his government must be 
like himself. Facts concerning both, he has graciously revealed. These we 
must admit upon the credit of his own testimony; with these we must satisfy 
our wishes, and limit our inquiry. ' To intrude into those things which he 
hath not seen' because God has not disclosed them, whether they relate to 
his arrangements for this world or the next, is the arrogance of one* vainly 
puffed up by his fleshly mind.' There are secrets in our Lord's procedure 
which he will not explain to us in this life, and which may not, perhaps, be ex- 
plained in the life to come. We cannot tell how he makes evil the minister 
of good: how he combines physical and moral agencies of different kind and 
order, in the production of blessings. We cannot so much as conjecture 
what bearings the system of redemption, in every part of its process, may 
have upon the relations of the universe; nor even what may be all the connec- 
tions of providence in the occurrences of this moment, or of the last. ' Such 
knowledge is too wonderful for us! it is high, we cannot attain it.' Our Sove- 
reign's * way is in the sea, and his path in the deep waters; and his footsteps 
are not known/ When, therefore, we are surrounded with difficulty; when 
we cannot unriddle his conduct in particular dispensations, we must remem- 
ber that he is God; that we are to « walk by faith; 5 and to trust him as im- 
plicitly ^when we are in ? the valley of the shadow of death,' as when his ' can- 
dle shines upon our heads.'— We. must remember that it is not for us to be 
admitted into the cabinet of the King of kings; that creatures constituted as 
we are could not sustain the view of his unveiled agency; that it would con- 
found, and scatter, and annihilate our little intellects. As often, then, as he 
retires from our observation, blending goodness with majesty, let us lay our 
hands upon our mouths, and worship. This stateliness of our King can afford 
us no just ground of uneasiness. On the contrary it contributes to our tran- 
quility: For we know, 

(2.) That if his administration is mysterious, it is also -wise* 
< Great is our Lord, and of great power; his understanding is infinite.* 
That infinite understanding watches over, and arranges, and directs all the 
affairs of his church and of the world. We are perplexed at every step; 
embarrassed by opposition; lost in confusion; fretted by disappointment; 
and ready to conclude, in our haste., that all things are against our own good 
and our Master's honour. But ' this is our infirmity;' it is the dictate of 
impatience and indiscretion. We forget the ' years of the right hand of the 
Most High.' We are slow of heart in learning a lesson which shall soothe 
our spirits at the expence of our pride. We turn away from the consola- 
tion to be derived from believing that though we know not the connections 

13 



f J8 

and results of holy providence, our Lord Jesus knows them perfectly. WitS 
him there is no irregularity, no chance, no conjecture. Disposed, before his 
eye, in the most luminous and exquisite order, the whole series of events 
occupy the very place and crisis where they are most effectually to subserve 
the purposes of his love. Not a moment of* time is wasted, nor a fragment 
of action misapplied. What he does, we do not, indeed, know at present, 
but, as far as we shall be permitted to know hereafter, we shall see that his 
most inscrutable procedure was guided by consummate wisdom; that out 
choice was often as foolish as our petulence was provoking; that the suc- 
cess of our own wishes would have been our most painful chastisement ; 
would have diminished our happiness, and detracted from his praise. Let us 
study, therefore, brethren, to subject our ignorance to his knowledge; instead 
of prescribing, to obey; instead of questioning, to believe: to perform our part 
without that despondency which betrays a fear that our Lord may neglect 
his; and tacitly accuses him of a less concern than we feel tor the glory of his 
own name. Let us not shrink from this duty as imposing too rigorous a 
condition upon our obedience, for a 

(3.) Character of Messiah's administration is righteousness. 'The sceptre 
of his kingdom is a right sceptre ' It « Clouds and darkness are round 
about him, righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne.* 
In the times of old his redeemed « wandered in the wilderness in a solitary 
way; but, nevertheless, he led them forth by the right way, that they might 
go to a city of habitation ' He loves his church and the members of it too 
tenderly to lay upon them any burdens, or expose them to any trials, which 
are not indispensible to their good. It is right for them to • go through 
fire, and through water,' that he may « Dring them out into a wealthy place' 
right to ' endure chastening,' that ' they may be partakers of his holiness'— right 
to have the sentence of death in themselves,' that they may * trust in the living 
God, and that his strength may be perfect in their weakness.' It is right 
that he should 'endure with much long suffering the vessels of wrath fitted 
to destruction:' that he should permit * iniquity to abound, the love of many 
to wax cold,* and the dangers of his church to accumulate, till the interpo- 
sition of his arm be necessary and decisive. In the day of final retribution not 
one mouth shall be opened to complain of injustice. It will be seen that 
' the Judge of all the earth has done right; that the works of his hands have 
been verity and Judgment,' and done, every one of them, in 'truth and up- 
rightness.' Let us, then, think not only respectful!}, but reverently of his 
dispensations, repress the voice of murmur, and rebuke the spii it of discon- 
tent, wait, in faith and patience, till he become his own interpreter, when 
' the heavens shall declare his righteousness, and all the people see hi3 
glory.' 

You will anticipate me in enumerating the means which Messiah employs 
in the administration of his kingdom. 

(1.) The Gospel,- of which himself, as an all sufficient and condescending 
Saviour, is the great and affecting theme. Derided by the world, it is, 
nevertheless, effectual to the salvation of them who believe. ' We preach 
Christ crucified, to the Jews a stumbling-block, and to the Greeks foolish- 
ness; but to them who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power 
of God, and the wisdom of God.' The doctrine of the cross connected with 
evangelical ordinances— the ministry of reconciliation; the holy sabbath; the 



m 

arguments of his covenant: briefly, the whole system of instituted worship, 
is the * rod of the Redeemer's strength* by which he subdues sinners to 
himself; rules even 'in the midst of his enemies;' exercises his glorious au- 
thority in his church, and exhibits a visible proof to men and angels, that he 
is King in Zion. 

(2 ) The efficient means to which the gospel owes its success, and the 
name of Jesus its praise, is the agency of the Holy Ghost. 

Christianity is ' the ministration of the Spirit." All real and sanctify, 
ing knowledge of the truth and love of God is from his inspiration. It was 
the last, and best promise which the Saviour made to his afflicted disciples 
at the moment of parting, ' I will send the Comforter, the Spirit of truth; 
He shall glorify me, for he shall take of mine and shall show it unto you/ 
It is he who convinces the world of sin, ef righteousness, and of judgment* — 
who infuses resistless vigour into means otherwise weak and useless. * For 
the weapons of our warfare #re not carnal, but mighty through God,' God 
the Spirit, 'to the pulling down of strong holds * Without his benediction 
the ministry of an archangel would never * convert one sinner from the error 
of his way.' But when he descends, with his life-giving influence from God 
out of heaven, then * foolish things of the world confound the wise; and weak 
things of the world confound the things which are mighty; and base things 
of the world, and things which are despised, yea, and things which are not, 
faring to nought things which are.' It is this ministration of the Spirit which 
renders the preaching of the gospel to • men dead in trespasses and sins' a 
reasonable service. When I am set down in the * valley of vision,' and view 
the oones, ' very many and very dry,' and am desired to try the effect of my 
own ability in> recalling them to life, I will fold my hands and stand mute in 
astonishment and despair. v But when the Lord God commands me to speak 
in his name, my closed lips shall be opened; when he calls upon * the breath 
from the four winds to breathe upon the slain that they may live,' I will pro- 
phesy without fear, — ' O ye dry bones, Hear the word of the Lord,' and, 
obedient to his voice, they * shall come togetlter, bone to his bone; shall be 
covered with sinews and flesh;' shall receive new life: and 'stand up upon their 
feet, an exceeding great army.' In this manner, from the graves of nature, 
and the dry bones of natural men, does the Holy Spirit recruit the • armies of 
the living God:' and make them, collectively and individually, ' a name, and 
a praise, and a glory,' to the 'Captain of their salvation.' 

(3.) Among the instruments which the Lord Jesus employs in the adminis- 
tration of his government, are the resources of the pJiysical and moral -world. 

Supreme in heaven and in earth, * upholding all things by the word of his 
power,' the universe is his magazine of means. Nothing which acts, or exists, 
is exempted from promoting, in its own place, the purposes of his kingdom. 
Beings rational and irrational; animate and inanimate; the heavens above and 
the earth below; the obedience of sanctified, and the disobedience of unsanc- 
tified men; all holy spirits; all damned spirits: in one word, every, agency, 
every element, every atom, are but the ministers of his will, and concur in 
the execution of his designs. And this he will demonstrate to the confusion 
of his enemies, and the joy of his people, in that * great and terriable day 5 
when he * shall sit upon the throne of his glory,' and dispense ultimate judg- 
ment to the quick and the dead. 

Upon these hills of holiness, the stability of Messiah's Throne, and the 



100 

perfect administration oFhis kingdom, let us take our station, and sum.. 

Prospects which rise up before the Church of God. 

When I took upon the magnificent scene, I cannot repress the salutation,. 
Hail thou that art highly favoured?' 

She has the prospect of preservation, of increase, and of triumph. 

(1) The prospect of preservation. 

The long existence of the Christian church would be pronounced, upon 
common principles of reasoning, impossible. She finds in every man a na- 
tural and inveterate enemy. To encounter and overcome the unanimous hos- 
tility of the world, she boasts no political stratagem, no disciplined legions, 
no outward coercion of any kind. Yet her expectation is that she shall live 
for ever. To mock this hope, and blot out her memorial from under heaven, 
the most furious efforts of fanaticism, the most ingenious arts of statesmen, 
the concentrated strength of empires, have been frequently and persevering- 
ly applied. The blood of her sons and her daughters ha? streamed like water, 
the smoke of the scaffold and the stake, where they won the crown of mar- 
tyrdom in the cause of Jesus, has ascended in thick volumes to the skies. 
The tribes of persecution have sported over her woes, and erected monuments, 
as they imagined, of her perpetual ruin. But where are her tyrants, and where 
their empires? the tyrants have long since gone to their own place; their 
names have descended upon the roll of infamy; their empires have passed, 
like shadows over the rock— they have successively disappeared, and left not 
a trace behind! 

But what became of the church? She rose from her ashes fresh in beauty 
and in might. Celestial glory beamed around her; she dashed down the 
monumental marble of her foes, and they who ha<ed her fled before her. She 
has celebrated the funeral of kings and kingdoms that plotted her destruc- 
tion; and, with the inscriptions of their pride, has transmitted to poster ity v the 
record of their shame. How shall this phenomenon be explained? We are 
at the present moment, witnesses of the fact; but trho can unfold the rnyste- 
ry.This blessed book, the book of truth and life, has made our wonder to cease. 
* The Lokd heu God ts the midst of her is mightv.' His presence is a foun- 
tain of health, and his protection a * wall of fire.' He has betrothed her, in 
eternal covenant, to himself. Her living head, in whom she lives, is above, 
and his quickening Spirit shall never depart from her. Armed with Divine 
virtue, his gospel, secret, silent, unobserved, enters the hearts of men and 
sets up an everlasting kingdom. It eludes all the vigilence, and baffles all 
the power, of the adversary. Bars, and bolts, and dungeons are no obstacle 
to its approach: Bonds, and tortures, and death cannot extinguish its influ- 
ence. Let no man's heart, tremble, then, because of fear. Let no man des- 
pair, in these days of rebuke and blasphemy, of the Christian cause. The 
ark is launched, indeed, upon the floods; the tempest sweeps along the deep; 
the billows break over her on every side. But Jehovah-Jesus has promised 
to conduct her in safety to the haven of peace. She cannot be lost unless the 
pilot perish. Why then do the heathen rage, and the people * imagine a 
vain thing?' Hear, O Zion, the word of thy God, and rejoice for the conso- 
lation ' No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper, and every 
tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is 
the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their righteousness is of me 
saith the Lord.' 



101 

Mere preservation, however, though a most comfortable, is not the only 
hope of the Church; she has 

(2.) The prospect of" increase. 

Increase — from an effectual blessing- upon the means of grace in places 
where they are already enjoyed: for thus saith the Lord, 'I will pour water 
upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground: 1 will pour my 
spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine offspring; and they shall 
spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water courses,' 

Increase— from the diffusion of evangelical truth through Pagan lands. 
* For behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the peo- 
ole; but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee. 
And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy 
rising- Lift up thine eyes round about and see: all they gather themselves 
together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from far, and thy daughters 
shall be nursed at thy side. Then thou shalt see, and flow together, and 
thine heart shall fear, and be enlarged; because the abundance of the sea shall 
be converted unto thee, the forces of the Gentiles shall come unto thee.' 

Increase — from the recovery of the rejected Jews to the faith and privileges 
of God's dear childrep. ' Blindness in part has happened unto Israel' — they 
have been cut off, for their unbelief, from the olive tree. Age has followed 
age, and they remain to this hour, spread over the face of the e;arth, a fear- 
ful and affecting testimony to the truth of God's word. They are without 
their sanctuary, without their Messiah, without the hope of their believing an- 
cestors. But it shall not be always thus. They are still beloved for the Fa- 
ther's sake.' When the ' fullness of the Gentiles shall come in,' they too shall 
be gathered. They shall discover, in our Jesus, the marks of the promised 
Messiah; and with tenderness proportioned to their former insensibility, shall 
cling to his cross. Grafted again into their own olive tree, 'all Israel shall 
be saved.' It was ' through their fall that salvation came unto us Gentiles.' 
And, ' if the casting away of them be the reconciling of the world, what shall 
the receiving of them be but lite from the dead?' What ecstacy, my brethren! 
the Gentile and the Jew taking * sweet counsel together, and going to the 
house of God in company!' the path of the swift messenger of grace marked, 
in every direction, by the 'fulness of the blessing of the gospel of Christ' 
« a nation born at once' — the children of Zion exclaiming, ' The place is too 
strait for me: give place to me that I may dwell.' The knowledge of Jeho- 
vah overspreading the earth ' as the waters cover the sea;' and all flesh enjoy- 
ing the salvation of God! 

This faith ushers in a 

(3.) Prospect of the Church— the prospect Of triumph. 

Though often desolate, and ' afflicted, tossed with tempest and not com- 
forted,' the Lord her God will then ' make her an eternal excellency,' and 
repay her sorrows with triumph.— 

Triumph — in complete victory over the enemies who sought her hurt. 
« the nation and kingdom,' saith the Lord, * that will not serve thee shall 
perish; yea those nations shall be utterly wasted.— The sons also of them that 
afflicted thee shall come bending unto thee; and all they that despised thee 
shall bow themselves down at the soles of thy feet; and they shall call thee 
the city of the Lord, the Zion of the Holy One of Israel ' That great enemy 
of her purity and her peace, who shed the blood of her saints and her pro- 



103 



pbets, the Max of « Six who has exalted himself above all that is called God,* 
shall appear, in the whole horror of his doom as the 'son of perdition, whom 
the Lord shall consume with the spirit of Ins mouth, and shall destroy with 
the brightness of his coming.' The terrible, but joyous event shall be an- 
nounced by an angel from heaven 'crying mightily with a strong voice, Baby- 
Ion the great is fallen, is fallen!" Alleluia,' shall be the response of the 
Church universal, Salvation, and glory, and honour, and power, unto the Lord 
our God, « for true and righteous are his judgments; for he hath judged the 
great whore which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath aveng- 
ed the blood of his servants at her hand!* Then, too, ' the accuser of the bre- 
thren' — « that old serpent which is the Devil,' shall be cast down, ' and 
bound a thousand years that he shall deceive the nations no more' — This 
will introduce the Church's 

Triumph— in the prevalence of righteousness and peace throughout the 
world. 

c Her people shall be all righteous.' The voice of the blasphemer shall no 
longer insult her ear. Iniquity as ashamed shall stop its mouth, and hide its 
head. « All her officers shall be peace, and all her exactors, righteousness/ 
' The kings of the earth bringing their glory and honour unto her,' shall ac- 
complish the gracious promise, 'The mountains shall bring peace to the 
people, and the little hills by righteousness.' Her prince whose throne is 
for ever and ever, ' shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many peo- 
ple; and they shall beat their swords into plow-shares, and their spears into 
pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall 
they learn war any more!' Every man shall meet, in every other man, a bro- 
ther without dissimulation. Fear and the sword shall be far away, ' they 
shall sit every man under his vine, and under his fig-tree, and none shall make 
them afraid.' For thus saith the Lord, ' Violence shall no more be heard 
in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call 
thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.' 

Triumph— in the presence of God, in the communion of his love, and the 
signal manifestation of his glory. ' Behold the tabnernacle of God. shall be 
with men. and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and 
God himself shall be with them, and be their God.' Then shall be seen, 
' the holy Jerusalem descending out of heaven from God,' which * shall 
have no nee'd of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of 
God shall lighten it, and the Lamb shall be the light thereof. And the na- 
tions of them which are saved shall walk in the light of it,— and they shall 
bring the glory and honour of the nations into it; and there shall in no wise 
enter into it any thing that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, 
or maketh a lie: but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life.' 

Such, according to the sure word of prophecy, will be the triumphs of 
Christianity; and to this issue all scriptural efforts to evangelize the heathen 
contribute their share. That mind is profane, indeed, which repels the sen- 
timent of awe; and hard is the heart which feels no bland emotion — But let 
us pause — You exult, perhaps, in the view of that happiness which is reserv- 
ed for the human race; you long for its arrival; and are eager, in your place, 
to help on the gracious work. It is well. But are there no heathen in this 
assembly? Are there none who, in the midst of their zeal for foreign missions, 
forget theU own souls; nor consider that they themselves ' neglect the great 






103 

Salvation?' Remember, my brethren, that a man may be active in measures 
which shall subserve the conversion of others, and yet perish in his own ini- 
quity. That very gospel which you desire to send lo the Heathen, mu^t be 
the gospel of your salvation; it must turn you from darkness <o light, from 
the power of Satan unto God;' it must make^ow 'meet for the inheritance 
of the saints,' or it shall fearfully aggravate your condemnation at last. 
You pray, * Thy kingdom come. ' But is the « kingdom of God within you?* 
Is the Lord Jesus * in you, the hope of glory?' Be not deceived, The nume 
of Christian will not save you. Better had it been for you « not to have 
known the way of ' righteousness'— better to have been the most idolatrous 
Pagan— better, infinitely better, not to have been born, than to die strangers 
to the pardon of the Redeemer's blood, and the sanctifying virtue of his Spirit. 
From his throne on high he calls; calls, my brethren to you, ' Look unto me, 
and be ye saved, for I am God, and there is none else. Seek ye the Lord, 
while he may be found; call ye upon him while he is near; Let the wicked 
forsake his way; and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return 
unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will 
abundantly pardon/ 

On the other hand, such as have f fled for refuge to lay hold on the hope 
set before them,' are commanded tfrbe 'joyful in their king.* He reigns, O 
believer, for thee. The stability of his throne is thy safety. The administration 
of his government is for thy good; and the precious pledge that lie * will per- 
fect that which concerneth thee.' In all thy troubles and in all thy joy 

* commit thy way unto him.' He will guard the sacred deposit. Fear not 
that thou shalt « lack any good thing' — Fear not that thou shalt be forsaken 
— Fear not that thou shalt fall beneath the * arm of the oppressor ' * He went 
through the fires of the pit to save thee; and he will stake all the glories of 
his crown to keep thee.' Sing, then, thou beloved, ' Behold, God is my sal- 
vation; I will trust, and not be afraid; for the Lord Jehovah is my strength 
and my song; he also is become my salvation.' , 

And if we have ' tasted that he is gracious:' if we look back with horror 
and transport upon the wretchedness and the wrath which we have escaped,, 
with what anxiety shall we not hasten to the aid of our fellow men, who are 

* sitting in the region and shadow of death ' What zeal will be too ardent; 
what labour too persevering; what sacrifice too costly, if, by any means, we 
may tell them of Jesus, and the resurrection, and the life eternal! Who shall 
be daunted by difficulties, or deterred by discouragement? If but one Pagan 
should be brought, savingly, by your instrumentality, to the knowledge of 
God, and the kingdom of heaven, will you not, my brethren, have an ample 
recompence? Is there here a man who would give up all for lost because some 
favourite hope has been disappointed? or who regrets the worldly substance 
which he has expended on so divine an enterprise? Shame on thy coward 
spirit and thine avaricious heart! Do the Holy Scriptures, does the experi- 
ence of ages, does the nature of things justify the expectation, that we shall 
carry war into the central regions of delusion and crime, without opposition,, 
without trial? Show me a plan which encounters not fierce resistance from 
the Prince of Darkness and his allies in the human heart, and I will show you 
a plan which never came from the inspiration of God. If Missionary effort, 
suffer occasional embarrassment: if impressions on the heathen be less speedy, 
and powerful, and extensive,' than fond wishes have anticipated; If particular 



KM 

parts of the great system of operation be, at times, disconcerted: if any oi! 
the ' ministers of grace* fall a sacrifice to the violence of those whom they go 
to bless 'in the name of the Lord;' these are events which ought to exercise 
our faith and patience; to wean us from self-sufficiency; to teach us where 
our strength lies, and where our dependence must be fixed; but not to enfee- 
ble hope, nor relax diligence. Let us not ' despise the day of small things.' 
Let us not overlook, as an unimportant matter, the very existence of that 
Missionary spirit which has already awakened Christians in different coun- 
tries from their long and dishonourable slumbers, and bids fair to produce, 
in due season, ' a general movement of the church upon earth.' Let us not, 
for one instant, harbour the ungracious thought, that the prayers, and tears, 
and wrestlings of those who * make mention of the Lord,' form no link in that 
vast chain of events by which he * will establish, and wdl make Jerusalem a 
praise in the earth.' That dispensation which of all others is most repulsive 
to ' flesh and blood,' the violent death of faithful Missionaries, should ani- 
mate Christians with new resolution. ' Precious in the sight of the Lord is 
the death of his saints ' The cry of martyred blood ascends the heavens; it 
enters into the ears of the Lord of Saboath.' It will give him no rest till he 
* rain down righteousness' upon the land where it has been shed, and which it 
has sealed as a future conquest for him who ' in his majesty rides prosperous- 
ly because of truth, and meekness, and righteousness.' 

For the world, indeed; and perhaps for the church, many calamities and 
trials are in store, before the glory of the Lord shall be so revealed, that * all 
flesh shall see it together, ' I will shake all nations,' is the divine declaration, 
€ I will shake all nations; and the desire of all nations shall come.' The vials of 
wrath which are now running, and others which remain to be poured out, 
must be exhausted. The ' supper of the great God,' must be prepared, and 
his 'strange work,' have its course. Yet the Missionary cause must ultimately 
succeed It is the cause of God, and shall prevail. The days, O brethren, roll 
rapidly on, when the shout of the isles shall swell the thunder of the Conti- 
nent: when the Thames and the Danube, when the Tiber and the Rhine, shall 
call upon Euphrates, the Ganges, and the Nile; and the loud concert shall 
be joined by the Hudson, the Mississippi, and the Amazon, singing with one 
heart and one voice, Alleluia! Salvation! The Lord God omnipotent reigneth 

Comfort one another with this faith, and with these words. 

Now, 'Blessed be the Lord God, the God of Israel, who only doeth won- 
drous things. And blessed be his glorious name for ever: And let the 
avhole earth be filled with his glory! Amen! and Amen!' 



FINIS, 



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